The Scarlet Raven
by Amberdulen
Summary: Complete! Percy Weasley is estranged from his parents and living in London with a formidable landlady and a highspirited flatmate. With the Ministry in turmoil, how will he survive the year? And where does a strange masked hero come in? Parallels OotP.
1. The Man in the Scarlet Mask

**Title:** The Scarlet Raven   
**Author:** Amberdulen   
**Rating:** PG for action, adventure and romance   
**Spoilers:** All five books and both textbooks   
**Shipping:** Strictly Canon   
**Disclaimer:** The characters, situations, environment, spells, creatures and plot belong to JKR, not me. Which really makes you wonder what I had to do with it at all.   
**Acknowledgements:** Huge thanks to my beautiful and talented beta-reader, Geisbrecht, and my "cowriter" Tahm the Lame, who is also beautiful and talented, but in a totally different way.   
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

**Prologue**

    _Perkins --         The rumors are true. Lord Voldemort has returned. His         followers are emboldened; already incidences of Muggle-         baiting have become more frequent and more malicious.         Dumbledore is amassing his army but I fear they will be         no more effective than during the first war. His ragtag         crew lacks the resources, trust, and high-level Ministry         connections to be even moderately successful.         I know what it will cost me in family, but their safety         would be a far greater sacrifice.         The time has come to take matters into our own hands.     The Scarlet Raven
_

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**Chapter One: The Man in the Scarlet Mask**

The back alleys of London flowed thick with a pearly-gray mist. Its sister fog dripped from the rooftops, a ghostly canopy above the knobby cobbled streets. It was into this sinister jungle that Jane Morris ventured. 

She wouldn't be out this late, usually, and certainly not in this part of town. But her aunt was ailing, too weak to even get to the chemist, and Jane was the only remaining family member who would venture up to her flat with drugs and canned soup. It was a generous act and a good thing to do -- the problem was, it left her walking through an abandoned part of London in the dead of night, with nothing to protect her but the empty wicker basket on her arm. 

Jane's feet rose and fell, lifting the fog like reluctant fleece on a briar patch. She walked quickly, and held her head high to reassure herself. There was nothing out here. Nothing in the alleys. Nothing beneath the shadows. Nothing ... 

Something small and white dashed across her path. Jane leapt back with a cry, her heart beating fast. She stared around the cold streets. There ... a long-haired cat sat purring on a doormat, licking its paw and eyeing her carelessly. 

She forced a shaky laugh. She shouldn't be out here at night, when a silly thing like a cat could put her in such a state ... 

Jane's eyes widened. Her basket clattered to the ground. 

The cat was growing. 

Pink eyes fixed on its quarry, the white Angora stretched and posed, expanding to fill the door frame. It stepped onto the street and purred thunderously. 

Jane backed away -- a timid step. 

The cat lowered its massive head until they were nose-on-nose. 

Jane tore her eyes away and sprinted down the street. 

Too late. The monster leapt and landed in her path, baring its vicious teeth. The silky white fur was growing tawny -- a thick mane sprouted, encircling a noble, remorseless face. It padded down the street toward her. Shaking now, Jane backed away with her arms crossed tight against her chest. The lion circled her lazily, licked its chops and gave a yawn of terrifying disinterest. 

"Ah -- _aaaai!"_

Jane's ankle caught on the curb and she tripped backward, thudding to the hard asphalt. She saw stars. Stars that whirled around the great lion's head, lighting like silver embers in the thatches of its mane ... 

Praying that she wouldn't faint, and sort of hoping that she would, she scrabbled backwards along the ground. The big cat followed lazily. Jane had seen her own Mouser do the same thing with rats and cockroaches. And then -- when he grew bored -- 

Jane closed her eyes tightly and waited for the end. 

_"Finite Incantato!"_

Jane hadn't heard anyone speak Latin since grammar school. Quite without meaning to, she opened her eyes. 

The lion shimmered before her eyes and shattered into a thousand specks of light that burnt out in the dark of the street. A slender figure stood in its place. He lowered his arm -- what was he holding? -- and looked straight at her. 

The figure was masked, with high boots and a scarlet cape that billowed behind him as he strode toward her. Jane stared helplessly at the sight. He put her in mind of the Three Musketeers. She tried to get to her feet, but the person got to his haunches before her and held her down. 

"Are you hurt?" 

The voice was strong and self-assured. Jane shook her head dumbly. 

"Excellent. I'll ask you to stay here, madam, for just a moment --" 

The figure stood up and vanished into thin air. 

Noise from a back alley caused Jane to twist around. The figure of a man, squat, hairy and bound from head to toe, came hurtling out from between two buildings and crashed into a trash can, where he lay wriggling feebly. A second man came stumbling out behind him, cased the street like an escaped felon, and made a break for the main street. Not a few feet behind him, the masked figure darted after him. _"Ligare!"_ he bellowed, and Jane gasped -- a harness of rope seemed to fly from his outstretched hand and wrap itself around the running man, who tripped and went thudding into the side of a brick wall. He slid to the sidewalk, limp. 

The masked man worked efficiently, going from one to the other and taking something from each -- guns, Jane thought, with a sudden new thrill of fear. She didn't know what was going on, didn't understand any of this. She didn't want to stay here any longer. Jane slowly got to her feet. 

Her motion attracted the masked figure's attention again. He hurried back to her side. "Please, madam. Just one moment, then I promise you may go ..." 

He drew a short stick from his belt and waved it at the two bound men. Instantly they vanished. Then he turned back to Jane. 

"I'm sorry about this. Please hold still ..." 

Jane stiffened. 

_"Obliviate!"_

***

Jane awoke from her daydream with a jolt. The buildings that loomed over her, the dead grainy sidewalks, and the nighttime sky were all absolutely still. She couldn't believe herself. What was she doing, standing on a dark street, with her head in the clouds? 

"You've dropped your basket, Janey-o," she chided herself, fetching the overturned basket from the ground a few feet away. "Losing your head ..." 

She never noticed the shadow that followed, guardian-like, until she reached her own home. Jane stepped into the warmth of her flat, and the masked man vanished into the night. 

***

A noise from downstairs woke Kingsley Shacklebolt, Auror, from deep and enjoyable sleep. He came instantly alert; lifting his wand from the bedside table, he took his arm from around his wife and crept out of the bedroom. 

The downstairs was empty; the noise came from the front porch. Readying himself for battle, Kingsley gripped his wand and threw open the door. 

A pair of wizards, trussed from head to toe, stared dolefully up at him from the doormat. Stuffed into the ropes was a carefully folded parchment bearing the silhouette of a bird in flight. Kingsley bent down to take it, quite ignoring the whimpering captives, and opened the letter. 

_Caught taunting a Muggle woman with illusions of a gigantic Angora cat. Captured as per the provisions for citizens' arrests, outlined in Ministerial Degree Eighty Two, Part B, section 3, paragraphs fifteen through eighteen. Regards, the Scarlet Raven._

Kingsley gazed down at the struggling criminals and sighed. "Not again." 


	2. Trials and Tribulations

**Chapter Two: Trials and Tribulations**

Percy Weasley snored, rolled over, and swatted his alarm clock from the top of the bedside table. Most morning started like that, he reflected groggily. Too blasted early -- he picked up the alarm clock and set it back for six o'clock in the morning -- with too much of a racket. He absolutely hated a racket. 

Grappling with his spectacles, he stumbled out of his room and across the hall to the bathroom. He always had the facilities to himself this time of day; Mother Swainbrooke's other boarder, a young American named Johnny Peasegood, could be counted on to lie abed until at least nine. Not that he was lazy. The young Master Peasegood held a position as a professional carouser, and regularly stayed at the office until closing. 

Percy made a meticulous toilette. His routine was precise and unchanging. This was the morning of the Potter boy's trial, he remembered while shaving; that would be interesting. He'd need to be on top of his game. Note-taking would be difficult with a volatile adolescent in the room. 

At six thirty-five on the button, he skimmed downstairs and politely declined Mother Swainbrooke's offer of breakfast. "I'm meeting Penelope," he told her importantly, hoping that she would mention his social well-being to a certain layabout upstairs. 

The mountainous landlady beamed at her best-behaved boarder. "Of course you are, and right you should," she crooned. "Daresay the young lady could stand a bit more of your time, if I'm not bein' too forward." 

"Mrs. Swainbrooke, I have only so much time to give," said Percy sternly, and neatly fastening his Ministry cloak, he swept out the door. 

_La Petit Fromage_ rested on the outskirts of Diagon Alley, squeezed between a monstrous showroom for enchanted mirrors and a teetering potions shop. Its ivy trellises and outdoors-only seating lent an exotic air to the place -- a charming, whitewashed café amid the bustling Dickensian city. Penelope Clearwater was nowhere to be seen, so Percy ducked into the potions shop. 

By the time he emerged, Penelope was seated at one of the wrought-iron tables, flipping placidly through the menu. Her long golden curls hung over the back of her chair. Her hair shimmered in the sun -- Percy loved the way it glinted in the morning, glowed in the evening. Grinning, he came up behind her and planted a kiss on her cheek. 

Penelope tensed up for just a moment before she realized who it was. "Hello, Percy." 

"Good morning, Penny." For just a moment his severe, freckled face showed the eagerness of a little boy. "Found something you might like." 

He pulled a tiny stoppered bottle from his pocket and set it on the table before her. A few drops of glimmering purple potion slid around the bottom. Glancing at him questioningly, Penelope tugged out the miniature cork. Instantly, a shimmering violet rose from the bottle and bloomed before her eyes, sparkling at the tips. 

"Oh -- it's gorgeous, thank you --" 

Deftly, Percy plucked the violet from its vial and tucked it behind Penelope's ear, looping it in place with a stray curl. He stood back and looked her over critically. "No, no, not gorgeous. Pales in comparison. I'll need to ask for my money back." 

Penelope rolled her eyes. "Sit down, Romeo." 

"What, no good morning kiss?" 

"Oh, I suppose ..." 

A few minutes later they were seated and giving their orders to the genteel waiter: An omelet for Penelope, steak and eggs for Percy. (He had mentioned once that nearly every day of his childhood had begun with porridge. Percy had inherited his parents' thrift, but there was something rebellious in the amount of money he was willing to spend on breakfast.) They chatted idly until the food arrived. Conversations about the weather, the passersby, or the news all seemed to take on a new significance when they were speaking with each other. The most mundane topic became worthwhile in the worth of the company. 

When breakfast arrived, Percy thanked the waiter in precise French and received a polite bow in return. A year in the Department of International Magical Cooperation had done wonders for his accent. Glancing at his wristwatch to be sure there was plenty of time to spare, Percy smiled over at her and started eating. 

"How have things been at work?" he asked, between bites. 

Penelope shrugged, with a wan smile. "All right, I suppose. The same as usual. Things don't change much in the Library of Gramarye." She sipped her orange juice. "Someone donated a crate of ancient scrolls in classic Varangian. We were all very excited until we found out it was a three-thousand-year-old cookbook." 

Percy laughed. "Well, at least it should make for some interesting lunches." 

Penelope smiled back. "The herbed polenta is quite good." She went back to her omelet. "You'll need to come over for dinner soon." 

"I'd love to, Penny, and I wish I could promise you a day," said Percy, fussily adjusting his napkin. "But you know how demanding my schedule is. I never know from day to day whether I'll be available." 

"I know," said Penelope. "Do try to make it sometime this summer, though. My parents haven't seen you for months --" 

She immediately regretted the statement and broke it off, embarrassed. Percy hadn't seen his own parents for months, either. But he seemed unfazed. 

"I'll certainly try. This place has splendid eggs, doesn't it?" 

"Oh -- yes, yes it does." Penelope remembered her omelet and took a distracted bite. She chewed in silence for a few moments that stretched into an unusually long quietness; eventually, Percy began to notice. 

He met her eyes and cocked his head curiously. "Are you all right, Penny? You look as if you want to say something." 

Penelope resisted the urge to demur. Instead she kept her eyes on him and said, as casually as she could, "I've heard from your mother." 

Every muscle in his body seemed to tighten up slightly. Percy was so tense all the time, most people wouldn't recognize the change -- but Penelope knew his idiosyncrasies well enough. Even if she hadn't, the new coldness in his voice would have given him away. 

"Have you?" 

"Yes," said Penelope. She picked around her eggs. "She asked after you." 

Percy's unshakable interest in buttering his piece of toast prevented his response. 

"She sounded ..." How to put it? Like a woman fighting to wake up from a nightmare? Like a woman in a shipwreck, casting about for driftwood to keep her afloat? No use sparing the truth. "She sounded heartbroken." 

The knife faltered in Percy's hand and he put it down. Something like a sigh escaped him. Then: "I can't say I'm surprised. Mother does tend to be overemotional." 

Penelope felt like she had been hit across the face. _"Overemotional?"_ So much for a polite discussion. "She _misses_ you, Percy. She thinks she failed you --" 

Percy's voice was filled with both surprise and reproach. "Penny, my decision to move to the city has nothing to do with my mother." 

"Then please, Percy, write her a letter and tell her so!" 

The coldness rolled back into his tone. "I dare say she knows." 

By now Penelope's cheeks were highly flushed. "Then tell me this, Junior Assistant to the Minister -- if she knows, why did she come to me begging me to find out what's been wrong with you lately?" 

The Junior Assistant to the Minister flushed almost as brightly under his freckles. "There is nothing wrong with _me,"_ he snapped, the edge of anger in his voice now sharp, "and if my mother has questions about my well-being I suggest she ask my father." He grabbed his cutlery and started back at his steak again; the knife slipped and sent half the steak flying into another customer. Percy didn't notice. "I daresay --" 

Percy stopped himself abruptly. He put down his silverware and looked Penelope full in the face. "I don't want to quarrel." 

Penelope bit her lip. "Nor do I." Of course she didn't. But sometimes it seemed to her that there _needed_ to be a quarrel ... 

"I'm glad we agree." 

But whether they agreed or not, breakfast ended in silence. 

Afterward they walked to the end of Diagon Alley, where the tall and narrow Library of Gramarye stood teetering atop ranks of stone steps. Penelope leaned up to kiss the side of his mouth, then turned and began the long trek upward to the door of her workplace. At the top, she stopped and turned partly around again; Percy was sure she would wave, but she simply looked down at him for a few seconds before slipping inside. 

Percy waited until the door closed behind her; then he turned and made his way to the Ministry. 

***

"Those in favor of clearing the witness of all charges?" boomed Madam Amelia Bones. 

Percy raised his head from his notes and scanned the courtroom, making a quick tally of the hands in the air. Thirty-four. Dutifully he scratched the number at the bottom of his scroll and took a second to admire his work. It would do with transcribing, but his record of the Potter trial was exceedingly thorough. His notes always were. 

"And those in favor of conviction?" 

_Seven,_ wrote Percy. Interesting. Someone had abstained. 

Minister Fudge, who had his hand raised, looked around at his fellow members of the Wizengamot as if he had been betrayed. He lowered his hand, breathed deeply, and said in a very controlled tone, "Very well, very well ... cleared of all charges." 

Albus Dumbledore, who had been sitting in a squashy armchair in the middle of the courtroom, bounded up out of his seat. "Excellent." The armchair vanished. "Well, I must be getting along. Good day to you all." 

He gathered his robes about him and whisked from the courtroom. 

Dumbledore's exit seemed to release some kind of tension; the members of the Wizengamot began getting up, collecting their things and chatting with one another. Harry Potter stood up, hung around for a bit to make sure he was free to go, and then started for the door at a fast clip. 

Minister Fudge and Dolores Umbridge remained seated. As the rest of the Wizengamot filed past, they turned to one another. 

"Justice has failed, it seems," said Fudge bitterly. 

Dolores Umbridge smiled, a simpering and watery thing. "Perhaps, Cornelius, justice is merely biding its time." 

Nodding thoughtfully, Fudge stood up to leave. Percy and Madam Umbridge followed his lead. "Don't forget to take down that Squib's parentage, Weasley. If she was lying, we can wrangle a mistrial." He looked as if that were too much to hope for. The squat witch patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. 

Percy nodded curtly. He rolled up his notes, cast a quick Scouring Spell where Fudge had spilled ink on his desk, gathered his spare quills, made sure that everything was in order, and followed the two out of the courtroom. 

His father was waiting outside. 

Fortunately, Percy caught sight of him just before stepping into the corridor. Straight-backed, eyes straight ahead, he was able to make it past without reacting or even looking at his father. Had he been watching from the corner of his eye, he would have seen his actions reciprocated in the man who had raised him. 

Minister Fudge stopped on the ninth floor to speak with Lucius Malfoy, who dropped them a civil nod; Dolores Umbridge got off the elevator on the fourth floor to check in on the Werewolf Registry. Percy continued upward, purple paper airplanes buzzing about his head, until the elevator voice said, "Level one, offices of the Minister, including the Order of Merlin Assignation Committee, British Bureaucratic Headquarters and the Office of Misinformation." Percy stepped smartly from the elevator and strode down the hall. Twenty purple memos whizzed behind him. 

The Minister's office was immense, lush in hardwood and thick magenta rugs. Tapestries, portraits and awards lined the walls. One section was taken up with moving photographs of Minister Fudge meeting famous people: Celestina Warbeck, Aidan Lynch, Newt Scamander, the Weird Sisters. (Fudge could barely be seen in the one with Gilderoy Lockhart, as Lockhart kept pushing him aside for a better position.) 

In the center of all this splendor stood Arabella Figg. Stooped, graying, clutching her carpet bag like a lifeline, she appeared quite terrified at her surroundings. She jumped and let out a squeal when Percy entered. He gave her a reassuring smile. 

"Mrs. Figg. Thank you for waiting." The old lady still looked quite nervous, so he ushered her over to one of the chairs and bade her sit. She did so quite self-consciously. 

Percy sat down at his writing-desk and unrolled his parchment again. "All I need from you are the names of your parents and grandparents, and then you're free to go." 

Mrs. Figg supplied the names in a quiet but steady voice; in fact, she did him one better and listed her great-grandparents too. Percy recognized more than one surname on the list. There was no doubt of her magical heritage. 

When she was finished, he rolled the paper back into a scroll and smiled at her comfortingly. "There. That's all we need. Is your house hooked up to the Floo?" 

Mrs. Figg nodded. 

"Splendid. Just go down the hall and you'll be able to catch a fireplace home." He helped her to stand up. "Thank you for your testimony." 

Mrs. Figg was looking up at him quizzically. Suddenly, her face cleared. 

"Bless my bundimuns, you're Arthur's third, aren't you?" 

"Yes, madam." Working at the Ministry, he had heard the question more times than he cared to count. 

The old woman smiled at him fondly. "Well. You're not as bad as they all say." 

Percy was speechless. 

"Toodle-oo," smiled Mrs. Figg, and the old woman tottered out the door. 

***

It was late in the evening when Minister Fudge heaved a long sigh and got up from his desk. 

"I'm done for today, my lad. The missus is expecting me." He stretched satisfactorily. "Go home, Weasley." 

"I'd like to finish this transcription, if it's all right with you, sir." 

Minister Fudge chuckled. "Fine, go on then. Though might I recommend that you try to spend at least a little time in the summer sun?" 

Percy nodded obediently. "I'll do my best, sir." 

Fudge lifted his cloak from the door and settled his lime-green bowler on his head. "You always do, my lad. Be sure to do the locking spells in the right order." 

"Of course, sir." 

The Minister of Magic left and shut the door behind him. 

Percy worked on transcribing the trial for another hour before he put his desk in meticulous order and painstakingly locked the office. He walked crisply through the halls of the Ministry -- now nearly empty -- and left through the visitor's entrance, manifesting onto the street above. 

Two blocks away, he stopped. 

"Afternoon, Perkins." 

Perkins was sitting on a park bench with his tweed robes tight around him, watching a couple of pigeons fight over half a Cauldron Cake. He stood up at Percy's greeting. 

"Afternoon yourself, Weasley. Interesting day at the office, with the Potter boy's trial and all, wasn't it?" 

"Very interesting." 

They started down the sidewalk, side by side. 

"There's been another toilet regurgitation," said Perkins, hands in his pockets. "Bethnal Green." 

"That makes three," said Percy. His head was bent, staring unseeing at the sidewalk. "Wimbledon and -- where was the other?" 

"Elephant and Castle," Perkins supplied. 

"I'll be over tonight," said Percy, still deep in thought. "I want a map of London and a good book on countercurses. Have the Aurors had any leads?" 

Perkins snorted. "Petty job like this? Not likely." 

"Then we'll have to do all the work ourselves, won't we?" said Percy. 

They stopped at the corner. 

"Eight o'clock, then?" Percy said. 

"Make it nine," said Perkins. "I'm entertaining someone for dinner." He leaned a bit closer, wrinkled face craggy under the street lamp. "Does the Raven fly tonight?" 

Percy's mouth twitched into a grin. "Only if he can figure out where to fly to," he murmured back. Then he turned and began the long walk back to Madam Swainbrooke's. 


	3. Three Men and a Yankee

**Chapter Three: Three Men and a Yankee**

Madam Swainbrooke's kitchen was warm and loud. 

The warmth came from the heaping bowls of steaming bread, savory stew, and mouthwatering plum pie lining the dining-room table, all of which were the doing of the landlady. The volume could be ascribed to the American tenant, Johnny Peasegood, and the three new buddies he had brought home. 

Percy hung his cloak beside the door and advanced into a personal nightmare. 

The four young men swarmed the dining room table, telling four stories simultaneously with extravagant gestures and animated demonstration. They seemed to take up the entire room. Madam Swainbrooke forced her massive form between them, filling the table with food and slapping away their hands with admirable dexterity. In short, it was bedlam. It reminded Percy of home. 

Just when he was thinking of slipping back out the door and getting a sandwich, Johnny spotted him. 

_"Percy!"_

Johnny Peasegood was four years older than Percy with a tendency to act four years younger. His good looks, cheery demeanor and vast personal fortune had made him an instant hit in the nightclub set. He hustled over to Percy and dragged him into the kitchen, gesturing unnecessarily at the assembled throng. 

"We've got dinner guests, see! Just met 'em today!" He pointed them out in turn. "This is Max, Benny and Orville -- gosh, sorry, Max, _Orville_ and _Benny_ -- guys, this is my flatmate Percy, he's a regular stick in the mud but listen, he _knows the Minister of Magic."_

Instantly Percy was swarmed with hand-clasps and good humor. 

"Minister of Magic, you say! Hobnobber, are you?" 

"Regular aristocrat." 

"Filthy rich, of course, you can tell by the glasses." 

Percy flushed brilliantly. Mother Swainbrooke fought her way through the melee, grabbed Percy by the shoulders, and propelled him toward the dinner table, bellowing, "There now, you lot leave 'im be, he's had a long day at the Ministry." She literally forced Percy into his seat and heaped his plate with food before turning on the jostling young men. "And you lot! Be seated all of ye, or the kitchen's closed and you'll need to find your eatin's elsewhere." 

There was a scramble to be seated. The landlady wasted no time dishing out heaping plates to each one, even as they quibbled over who had whose silverware. The fare was met with a cheer and then a few moments of thoroughly unexpected silence as they tucked in. 

"Goodness, ye can eat sure as ye can talk," Mother Swainbrooke said appreciatively, busily refilling the bread bowl. "Where ye found these starvin' wolves, Johnny, I couldn't guess." 

"I met 'em in the park," Johnny said exuberantly. "You're not allowed to play Quodpot -- can't imagine why -- or even Quidditch, though who knows why you'd want to --" The lads made it clear what they thought of his preference in sports. "So they taught me cricket all afternoon. _Cricket,_ can you believe it? I mean, how _British."_

"Cheerio," said Max, digging into the stew heartily. 

"Tallyho," Orville agreed. 

Benny might have echoed the sentiment but his mouth was stuffed with bread and butter. 

Mother Swainbrooke bustled by and gave Johnny a cheerful box on the ear. "Too much a tourist, this one," she said. "He wants 'is British games, British meals --" 

"British women ..." added Benny, stealing Max's iced tea. 

"Better death than a life without love," opined Johnny rakishly, and his mates heartily agreed. "Isn't that right, Percy?" 

"For those who lack the constitution," said Percy, fighting to maintain a dignity that was being attacked on every side. He slammed his spoon onto Orville's hand, which had been snaking perilously close to Percy's slice of plum pie. 

Johnny's friends kept up their jolly banter and joie de vivre throughout the meal. By the end of it they had Madam Swainbrooke crying with laughter, to the point where she sat at the table chortling while they washed the dishes, sending soap and china flying across the room as each one tried to outdo the others' housework spells (none of which were, in Percy's opinion, even up to scratch.) 

By then Percy had had enough. "I'm going out," he told the room in general. 

Madam Swainbrooke paused to wipe her mirthful tears. "Oh, I do hope it's with that young lady of yours. Sure, she deserves more of your time." 

"Young lady?" cried Johnny. "You dog, Percy!" 

"It's work-related," said Percy through his teeth. 

The living room roared. 

"He's got a date with the Minister!" 

"Too-ra-loo, Percy, bring us back some champagne." 

"And women!" 

Percy fled the scene and slammed the door behind him. 

***

Perkins met him at the door, looking aggravated. 

"You're early." 

"I risked life and limb to get here," said Percy dryly. "Johnny Peasegood had company." 

"So have I," Perkins said, lowering his voice. Percy looked past him into the living room to see an elderly woman fussily arranging her long wool skirt, wrinkled cheeks tinged slightly pink. 

"Oh." Percy faltered. "Shall I --" 

"No point in it now," grumbled Perkins. He waved Percy inside and shut the door behind him. "Arabella, it's that 'nice young man' from the Potter trial. Percy, you've met Arabella Figg." 

Arabella Figg smiled up at Percy. "Of course." She frowned suddenly. "Do you need my testimony again?" 

"No, you did fine," Percy told her reassuringly, "but I have come on business, I'm afraid; the Minister has a few questions for the Muggle Artifacts office and requested their answers before tomorrow morning." 

Perkins looked suitably worried. Percy patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, sir, they're quite simple. I'm afraid this will take some time, though, madam," he said to Arabella, who nodded and stood. 

"Not another word. I'll see you tomorrow, Chester," she said sweetly, and pecked him on the cheek. She picked up her carpet bag as she left. 

Percy watched the door close before turning back to Perkins with his eyebrows raised. "My my. 'Entertaining someone for dinner', are we?" 

"Yessir," said Perkins proudly, straightening his lapel. "Someone who's mad over me, don't mind telling you. It's because I still have all my hair," he confided, patting down the fluffy white cloud surrounding his head. 

Percy didn't care to think about Perkin's amorous endeavors. "That is _entirely_ your business," he said. "Do you have that map?" 

Perkins snorted disdainfully and pressed the center of a flower carved onto the side of his dining-room table. A concealed drawer sprang out, filled with scrolls and scraps of parchment of all colors. He plucked a large folded map from the drawer and tossed it over to Percy, who caught it and spread it open so that it took up the whole table. 

"Look at you," Perkins snorted, prowling around discontentedly. "Hunched over a bit of paper!" 

"Bethnal Green," Percy muttered to himself, making a dot somewhere above the river Thames. "Wimbledon ..." 

"Back in my days with the Aurors, it was all legwork! Apparating from town to town, taking interviews from folks who thought they were crazy, dressing up in that ridiculous Muggle fashion every single day --" 

"Progress," said Percy, with a smile calculated to infuriate. 

Perkins scowled. "No background, that's the problem these days. No bloody notion of the way things used to be done. Just 'Get me a book and a wand,' whiz-bang, problem solved." He threw himself into the chair across from Percy and leaned over the map. "What the devil are you doing?" 

"It's an epidemic," said Percy, carefully drawing lines between the three towns. "Behind every epidemic --" He carefully positioned a compass and drew a circle connecting them. "-- there's a virus." 

He put his finger in the center of the triangle. 

"And I think he lives right about here." 

~~~~~~~~~~   
Perkins' absolutely perfect first name was thought up by my lovely and underappreciated beta-reader, Geisbrecht. You can find her work here on Fanfiction.net. 


	4. Meet the Press

**Chapter Four: Meet the Press**

Percy opened his mouth and yawned hugely. 

Minister Fudge paused in the letter he was dictating and regarded Percy curiously. "Are you all right, my lad?" 

"Quite all right, sir." Percy stifled another yawn. "Just haven't been getting enough sleep lately, I suppose." 

"Ah yes," said Fudge smugly, rolling onto the balls of his feet. "Yes, I see. And that's quite all right, Weasley, a young man at your age should have himself a bit of fun -- and you could stand a bit more of it, my lad." He cast Percy a knowing wink. "So long as she doesn't interfere with your work." 

Percy straightened indignantly. "Of course not, sir! And it's not like that at all," he added hastily, realizing the implications on Penelope's character. 

Minister Fudge looked his junior assistant over and then let out a little sigh. "No, of course it wouldn't be, would it," he said. "Carry on then, Weasley. 'I expect your reply within the week. Your efforts are greatly appreciated, the Ministry thanks you, et cetera et cetera, signed the Minister of Magic.'" 

Percy put the finishing touches on the letter and handed it to the Minister, who scanned it over and put his signature at the bottom with a quick, practiced hand. 

"Splendid," said the Minister, handing the letter back to Percy. "Deliver that before lunch and the matter will be closed." Indeed, Percy had already rolled up the letter and was busily marking the wax seal with the Ministry crest. "Now, my boy, I have a somewhat more difficult assignment for you." 

Percy's ears perked up. "Yes, sir?" he said eagerly. 

"There'll be a reporter coming in from the Daily Prophet at around three o'clock --a young Mr. Dellinger, I believe," said Minister Fudge, flipping through a vast folder of parchments that Kingsley Shacklebolt had left on his desk. "He wishes to do a piece on Dolores Umbridge and her new promotion. I would submit to the interview myself, but I'm afraid I shall be meeting with the Goblin Liaison Office during that very hour. I'll need you to -- as they say -- speak for me." 

Percy couldn't believe his luck. "Of course, sir! I'd be delighted." And he'd buy copies of the article for everyone he knew. 

"Ah, good, good, Weasley. I knew I could count on you. Bartemius Crouch -- wherever he may be -- always spoke quite highly of you." 

"Thank you, sir." Percy smiled proudly on the outside and slyly on the inside. He knew perfectly well that he had been promoted on the basis of his ability to spy on the rest of his family -- of everyone hurt by the estrangement, Minister Fudge probably felt it most of all. Since then he had realized Percy's merit, and was pretending that it was the reason he'd been promoted in the first place. 

"I've made up a ... well, a fact sheet of sorts," said Minister Fudge, plucking a scroll from his desk. "It describes the office of the Hogwarts High Inquisitor and establishes the Ministry's position." He gave Percy a very meaningful look. 

"I'll do my best to honor it, sir," said Percy promptly. 

Minister Fudge smiled. "Of course you will, lad. Well! I'm off to chat with the Wizengamot -- horrible conflict concerning the use of courtrooms, apparently the Ludicrous Patents Office booked them for an office party on the day of an important trial -- I'll just leave these so that you have a chance to read them thoroughly." He laid the parchment on Percy's desk. "Carry on with that report. Good luck this afternoon!" He grabbed his bowler from the hat rack and strode out. 

Minister Fudge had been gone a bare few minutes when a fluffy white head poked into the office. 

"Weasley!" 

Percy got up from his desk and hurried over to the door. "Perkins! Couldn't this have waited --" 

"Just found out," said Perkins. "Sturgis Podmore -- that bloke that was caught trying to get into the tenth floor --" 

"He looked like a regular vagabond," said Percy with an air of distaste, "hair flying in every direction --" 

_"He's in Dumbledore's Order!"_

Percy stared. 

"Well, he used to be," Perkins reconsidered. "'Spect he will be again in six months, once they let him out of Azkaban." 

Percy leaned against the doorframe, deep in thought. "It's as bad as we expected," he murmured. "Getting themselves thrown in prison, and even before Voldemort makes a public move ..." He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. Then he remembered the danger of meeting in the office, and straightened. "Is there anything else?" 

"Stop by my place after work," Perkins said quickly. "We'll begin those lessons you wanted. I'll fry something up for dinner." 

"I'll need to leave by seven," Percy told him. "Meeting Penny." He yawned again. "I don't suppose we could pass up on the toilet stakeout tonight, eh?" 

"The night we're not there is the night he'll strike," Perkins said stoutly. "See you after, Weasley." 

"See you," said Percy halfheartedly. He returned to his desk. Three weeks of nightly patrols had led to no incidents and no suspects, let alone a capture. Still, Percy remained convinced that they had the right location. The Muggle-baiter -- or, as he and Perkins had come to call him, the Loo Bandit -- was simply laying low. He would give himself away in time. 

Percy yawned, settled back in his chair to read the Minister's 'fact sheet', and fell asleep within seconds. 

***

Percy snorted awake at five minutes to one. Congratulating himself on having an impeccable internal clock, and praying that no one had seen him sleeping through lunch, he fastidiously straightened his desk and got to work preparing for the afternoon interview. 

The young Mr. Dellinger turned out to be a burly, brown-haired boy not much older than Percy, who had a firm handshake and said, "Daedalus Dellinger, I'm with the Daily Prophet" as if he hated the taste of the words. Percy ushered him up to the Minister's office and they sat on opposite sides of his writing desk. 

"So," said Dellinger, when pleasantries had been dispensed with, "I understand that the Ministry has created a new position -- the Hogwarts High Inquisitor. What prompted the creation of this job?" 

"Well," said Percy, proud of his knowledge of the situation, "the Minister has been growing uneasy about the goings-on at Hogwarts for some time. He is now responding to concerns voiced by anxious parents, who feel the school may be moving in a direction they do not approve." 

"Like who?" said Dellinger, scribbling on his parchment with another quill between his teeth and still another wedged behind his ear. 

"Oh, support for this measure has been vast," said Percy smugly, "especially given the events surrounding the end of the school year. I won't embarrass those who privately support the decree, but both Mr. Lucius Malfoy and Madam Diana Edgecomb have told me that they would be quite happy to discuss it with the Prophet." That was in the notes Minister Fudge had left behind. 

"But there's been some dissension," Dellinger said, looking up at Percy. 

"Sadly," said Percy, taking off his glasses and meticulously polishing them on the edge of his robe, "not everyone is as perceptive to the needs of the students -- and as progressive -- as Minister Fudge and Dolores Umbridge." He put his glasses back on. "Just this morning, both Mr. Ogden and Madam Marchbanks of the Wizengamot have resigned their positions as a sign of protest." 

"Yes, I had heard." The reporter made a quick note. "Dolores Umbridge. Can you tell us more about her?" 

"Certainly," said Percy, straightening his collar. "Dolores Umbridge has been a key player in wizard politics for well on twenty years. With extensive training in educational issues and a thorough knowledge of the workings of the Ministry, she was Minister Fudge's first choice to fill the vacancy at Hogwarts." 

Dellinger looked surprised. "Minister Fudge was able to appoint someone to a Hogwarts position?" 

"Why yes," said Percy. "In full accordance, I might add, with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Two. That's how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts. Dumbledore couldn't find anyone, so the Minister put in Umbridge and of course, she's been an immediate success, totally revolutionizing the teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts and providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback about what's really happening at Hogwarts." 

Some of that was from Fudge's notes as well, but much of it was Percy's own. He was quite proud of knowing the names and numbers of the various decrees going through the office every day. 

"Interesting," said Dellinger, though he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to Percy. He checked his notes. "What's this position entail?" 

"It's quite encouraging," said Percy, now fully comfortable with the interview and, in fact, rather enjoying himself. "This is an exciting new phase in the Minister's plan to get to grips with what some are calling the 'falling standards' at Hogwarts. Again, I would refer you to Lucius Malfoy," he added, and the reporter made note. "As for the position itself, it is something like ... an overseer, if you will, a foreman. The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch." 

"Then this is a promotion," Dellinger deduced. 

"Yes and no," Percy chuckled. "It's quite an honor, of course, but she will retain her original job. Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in addition to her own teaching post, and we are delighted to say that she has accepted." 

"I'll bet you are," said Dellinger. He glanced through his notes again. "I think that's everything I need from the Ministry." He rose to extend a hand. "Thanks for your time." 

Percy shook his hand solemnly. "The pleasure was mine, Mr. Dellinger. Might I say," he added hastily, as Dellinger began to leave, "that should you ever require the opinion of a Ministry insider --" 

Daedalus Dellinger turned around. "I'll come straight to you," he said, not betraying a smile. "I'm sure you'll have words to spare." 

Never dreaming that he had been insulted, Percy bowed the reporter out the door. 

***

Cornelius Fudge returned at four forty-five, bearing a sheaf of parchments and looking disgruntled. "Gringott's wants to bone up security with a couple of trolls," he told Percy, depositing the teetering stack on his desk. "It's ridiculous, of course, trolls in Diagon Alley ... Goblin Liaison Office won't listen to reason ..." He collapsed into his chair and flipped open a purple paper airplane that had come in moments before. "Ah, the Ludicrous Patents Office has rescheduled their party. Very good, the Wizengamot will be thrilled ..." He looked over at Percy for the first time. "By the way, Weasley, how did the interview go?" 

"It went splendidly, sir," said Percy proudly. "I believe that the ministry's stance on the subject has been very clearly delineated." 

"Ah." Minister Fudge nodded approvingly. "I'm delighted to hear it. Duplicate this and pass it on to the Wizengamot, my lad." 

He flicked the memo expertly through the air; Percy caught it by one wing. 

The Minister stood up and patted himself on the chest. "That's it for me, Weasley, I'm off early. Dining with the Parsimmers, you know. Excellent people. Quite generous..." 

He wound his scarf around his neck and picked up his lime-green bowler from the hat stand by the door. Percy carefully unfolded the memo and began copying it to another purple parchment. 

"Oh -- Weasley -- one more thing." 

Percy looked up quickly from the memo. "Yes, sir?" 

"Lucius Malfoy is holding a dinner party of sorts in honor of Madam Umbridge's new position. She'll be in attendance, as will I ... I was wondering, Weasley, if you'd care to join us. You were kind enough to facilitate that interview, after all, and Dolores did appreciate your work at the Potter trial." 

Percy was stunned. "A ... a dinner party, sir?" 

"Yes, you see, it's a sort of gathering where we all go and eat dinner." 

"Of course --" Percy's ears went very red. "I'd be -- I'd be very honored, sir." 

"Delightful." Minister Fudge looked genuinely pleased that he had accepted. "The Malfoy Manor at five o'clock on Sunday, then. Dress robes, of course." 

"Of course, sir," said Percy, nearly knocking over his inkwell in his excitement. 

"In that case I'll see you there. Have a good weekend, my lad. Do try to have some fun." 

"If you insist, sir." Percy's face was serious again. 

Minister Fudge sighed. 

***

Perkins lived in a cookie-cutter townhouse in Covent Garden. His knowledge of the Muggle world kept his neighbors blissfully unaware of his magical connection, and an arsenal of charms completely hid the fact that his small home contained a restaurant-quality kitchen, a living room, a dining room, a bedroom, two libraries and one-and-a-half baths. 

Percy apparated to the end of the street and approached the house casually. He knocked briskly and waited for nearly half a minute. No response. He tried again, more loudly. Nothing. 

Reasoning that he was invited and therefore expected, he tried the doorknob. It turned in his hand. 

"Perkins?" 

The house was dark. Percy came inside cautiously and shut the door behind him, instinctively making as little noise as possible. This wasn't right. He reached for his wand. 

A glimmer of light rose and fell in the direction of the study. Carefully, Percy made his way through the dark apartment. His every footfall echoed on the bare floors. He kept close to the walls, forcing himself to remember the position of Perkins' furniture, struggling to acclimate to the darkness. 

The door to the study loomed on his left. Percy gripped his wand, took a deep breath, and burst in. 

_"Accio wand!"_

The wand flew out of his hand. At the same instant, the lights blazed on in time for Percy to see a shimmering broadsword careening towards his head. 

Percy dropped to the ground and felt the blade whiz over his head. From that vantage point, he had a split-second to take in what was going on: Perkins sat in an armchair in the corner, nonchalantly drinking a cup of tea, an abandoned sword lay across the end table, and the sword which had attacked him hung in midair, unsupported, waiting for him to move. 

Percy lunged at the abandoned sword. Instantly the disembodied one zoomed across the room toward him. He grabbed his weapon and swung it wildly; the attacking sword was thrown over his shoulder and into the wall, where it hung shuddering for a few moments before pulling itself out and approaching Percy again. 

Percy turned his attention on Perkins. 

_"What -- are -- you -- doing!"_

"Teaching you to fight, lad!" called Perkins from the corner, raising his teacup in salute. 

Percy ducked and the blade narrowly missed the back of his head. He took a swipe at the sword and managed to make contact; it hung in the air for a moment, singing with vibration, and resumed the attack. "You were supposed to teach me yourself!" 

"Progress," said Perkins, with a devilish grin. 

Percy ducked again. "It's trying to kill me!" 

"Pish tosh!" said Perkins. "Anyhow I'm not half as good as the old Guardian here. Watch it, sprout, your left flank's exposed." 

Percy rotated quickly to cover his left side and received in turn a long scratch in the right arm. 

"Overcorrection!" sang out Perkins, as his young protégé dove behind a plant stand. The plant was severed with one swipe of the Guardian sword. Percy swung out twice and caught the Guardian first from one side, then the other -- the sword withdrew a foot and Percy came out from behind the shorn plant with the sword handle clutched in both hands. 

"You'd better hope I lose this fight," Percy snarled, sweat dripping around the rim of his spectacles and down his long nose, "because if I win, I'll kill you." 

"With that technique?" roared Perkins. 

The Guardian pulled back and redoubled the attack. Percy fended off a half-dozen blows before the sword caught him in the left shoulder; another ten or so assaults and the Guardian sword caught Percy's sword just under the handle and sent it flying across the room with one deft twist. He dove after it and was delivered a hard smack in the chest with the flat of the blade. He thudded to the ground, panting, with the Guardian hovering at his throat. 

"That's enough!" 

Perkins had risen from his armchair, teacup still in hand. The sword backed away from Percy, snapped to attention before Perkins, and flew across the room to settle itself across the shield above the mantelpiece. 

Percy stared after the sword and shakily accepted the hand that Perkins offered. He was barely on his feet again before he staggered over to the sofa and collapsed, quite ignoring Perkins' protests that he was getting blood on the upholstery. It was a few minutes before he spoke again. 

"Where'd you get that sword?" 

"Confiscated it in a raid," said Perkins, smiling fondly at the Guardian in its position over the mantle. He beamed over at Percy. "Sort of fun, wasn't it?" 

Percy glared at him. "I think I hate you." 

"Nonsense. You'll thank me someday." 

He gestured toward the armchair. 

"Have some tea?" 

***

Penelope paced in front of Nelson's Column in Trafalgar Square. She glanced again at her watch. Percy wasn't late, technically -- well, not by much -- but she had grown to count on him arriving places ten minutes too early. He took punctuality to an extreme. 

Just as she was starting to wonder whether to be worried, she saw a red-headed figure with a very familiar walk striding across the courtyard toward her. She grinned a little. Percy denied it, but she thought he looked dapper in Muggle clothes. Sweater-vests really suited him. 

"Wotcher, 'andsome," she said cheekily, as he approached. 

"Wotcher yourself," he grinned back, hands in his pockets. Yes, Muggle clothes _definitely_ suited him. "Good day?" 

"It is now." 

She reached up put her arm around him -- but when her hand brushed his shoulder, Percy let out his breath and flinched. 

Penelope drew back worriedly. "Are you all right?" 

"I'm fine," Percy said dismissively. "Just -- banged it at work, that's all --" 

"Oh, do let me look at it --" 

"I told you, it's fine," Percy said, more sharply that he intended. Penelope dropped her hands. He managed to smile at her. "Thank you." 

Penelope smiled back. "Apart from getting banged up," she said, leading him over to a park bench, "how was work?" 

"Smashing," said Percy eagerly, the pain in his arms completely forgotten. They both sat down. "I gave an interview to the Daily Prophet. And Penny, you'll never believe -- I've been invited to a formal dinner in honor of Dolores Umbridge. It's at Lucius Malfoy's estate. The Minister himself invited me!" 

"Congratulations!" said Penelope. Percy hadn't sounded so excited for a very long time. Keeping her voice casual, she asked, "Could you take a guest?" 

Percy looked shocked. "Penny, I would never presume --" 

"It's all right," she said quickly. "I understand." 

She looked disappointed. Percy reached out and took both her hands. "I know who I'd invite, though." 

Penelope smiled back at him. "Oh? Who?" 

"Johnny Peasegood. He's dying to meet the Minister." Penelope's jaw dropped indignantly, but Percy was grinning at her, and his jokes weren't so rare that she didn't recognize them. She laughed with him. "Honestly, Penny, I'd take you in a minute." 

She leaned toward him. "Honestly?" 

Their noses were nearly touching. Percy lowered his voice. "Of course. They might promote me for bringing along such a beautiful guest." 

"You're joking again," whispered Penelope, her lips brushing his cheek. 

Percy let his hands roam up her arms. "Not about the beautiful guest ..." 

Further conversation became unnecessary. 


	5. The Political Party

**Chapter Five: The Political Party**

The Malfoy manor shimmered with flickering sky-blue candles and draped midnight silk. Every fresh flower, every portrait, every sconce and table told stories of vast wealth and perfect taste. 

_And no more than I deserve,_ thought Percy proudly. Hard work, intelligence and a good attitude had taken him as far as he could go at Hogwarts, and he had no doubt that it could take him even farther in the Ministry. 

He milled around the Malfoy's sitting room with a handful of other Ministry officials. Some he recognized from the Wizengamot; others Fudge had pointed out in passing. This was an elite group, he thought to himself. _I knew it wouldn't be long before I was among them._

Narcissa Malfoy swept into the room graciously and made a small bow. "Thank you all for coming," she said grandly, extending one slender hand. "Dinner is served in the Mahogany Dining Room. Please follow me." 

_My my, the Mahogany Dining Room,_ thought Percy, joining the small crowd of dapper men and well-dressed women as they filtered through the lush carpeted halls. One day, he decided, he too would live in a house with so many dining rooms that he had to name them. 

The Mahogany Dining Room was stunning; hardwood floors, towering columns and a brilliant cathedral ceiling made a majestic backdrop to a lavish U-shaped table spread with finery and food. Somewhere, an unseen quartet played Gorgonzolli's _Flight of the Glumbumble_. Each place was set with gold, china and silk, designated with a name that shimmered in gold above the seat. Percy found his own near the end of one of the legs of the U, between a stout, mustachioed man and a tiny woman who looked as if she could barely lift her heavy gold goblet. 

When everyone was seated, the lights dimmed slightly and a torch flared at the head of the table. Front and center sat Dolores Umbridge, beaming around and giving tiny waves of her hand to friends along the table. On her left sat Minister Fudge. On the right was Lucius Malfoy. He stood up, tall frame elegant in the firelight, and raised his goblet. 

"Welcome, friends," he said warmly, "to our humble home. Narcissa and I are delighted to have you all here, and we are especially delighted at the occasion which prompted this gathering. Our dear friend Dolores Jane --" There was some smattering of applause, and Lucius waited until it died down. "Dolores Jane has been a driving force in the Ministry for many years. Her dedication, loyalty, and ambition have not gone unnoticed, and as you all know, Minister Fudge has promoted her to a high-ranking position at Hogwarts School." 

This time nearly everyone joined in the applause. The smile never left Madam Umbridge's face. 

"We gather in her honor," Lucius said, when the applause ended. "As colleagues -- as well-wishers -- as supporters -- and as friends. Dolores, we all wish you the best of luck in your new position, and we trust that you will do what you can to make Hogwarts a better place for our children. To your success." 

He raised his glass further, and everyone joined in the toast. 

Dinner was fabulous. The Malfoys had lost their house elf several years ago, Percy remembered, but they must have acquired another; the meal that magically appeared before them was varied, vast, and delicious. Percy hadn't had such elegant fare since the previous year's Yule Ball. He wasn't likely to have it again anytime soon, he reasoned -- a fry-up at Perkins' was about the best it got, most days -- so he dug into the escargot with gusto and ignored the fact that the wispy woman on his right had little more to eat than a salad and some appetizers. 

Eventually the meal gave way to cocktails and dancing. The table was Banished and the floor cleared; a few words from the host, and the Mahogany Dining Room became a spacious Mahogany Ballroom. Opulent crystal chandeliers dropped from the ceiling and hung unsupported far above the heads of the guests. 

Percy spent some time chatting with the tiny woman beside him (so pale in the candlelight that he thought she might faint) and then made his rounds, talking shop with others who worked on the first floor of the Ministry. Though Madam Umbridge was constantly surrounded by friends and admirers, he managed to slip in to offer her congratulations and even spoke with her about some of the changes she had in mind for Hogwarts. When she was whisked away to dance by another Ministry worker, Percy wandered to the wet bar and stood watching the guests, perfectly content with the world. 

Across the room, Minister Fudge stood chatting with Lucius Malfoy and a bulldog-faced wizard with wiry gray hair who Percy recognized as an Auror. He spotted Percy and waved his arm invitingly. Percy hurried to his side. 

"Yes, sir?" 

Minister Fudge chuckled. "Just as I was telling you, Dawlish -- young Weasley's quite the eager achiever." 

"Then the apple has fallen far from the tree," murmured Malfoy, inclining his head slightly. "Forgive me, Minister, but I must have a word with Madam Meliflua." He made a small bow and glided across the room to where a cronish woman stood admiring a tapestry of a unicorn hunt. 

"Fine man, Lucius," remarked Minister Fudge. "Quite generous. He's done great things for St. Mungo's, a great one for charity ..." 

Percy interrupted the Minister politely. "You wanted to see me, sir?" 

"Ah, yes." Fudge smiled as if bestowing a gift. "I have some news that may interest you." 

Percy tilted his head inquisitively. "News, sir?" 

"Good news, I promise," Minister Fudge chuckled. "Dolores tells me that your brother has been made a Hogwarts prefect." 

Percy's jaw dropped. _"Ron?"_ He recovered himself quickly. "That's -- that's fantastic, sir!" 

"I knew you'd be pleased," said Fudge self-satisfactorily. "I expect your family will be quite proud." 

Percy caught shrewd way that the two were watching him. "I expect so," he said stiffly. "I wouldn't know, sir." 

Minister Fudge looked just a bit disappointed. Then he said, casually swirling the drink in his glass, "It _is_ a shame about the company that your brother is keeping." 

The only company that Ron kept regularly was that of Harry Potter. Percy's lips tightened. All things being what they were, there was no more dangerous place than beside the Potter boy. He glanced up at Minister Fudge, who was watching him keenly. Obviously, a reaction was expected. 

"I think I see what you mean, sir," he said slowly. 

Minister Fudge nodded gravely. "I can see that you do, my lad," he said. 

Madam Umbridge came over and both of them looked her way. She nodded to Fudge and approached Percy with a smile. "Young Mr. Weasley," she simpered, "would you do an old colleague the honor of a dance?" 

"I'd be delighted," said Percy grandly, and the secretaries to the Minister swept onto the dance floor. 

***

Unsurprisingly, Johnny Peasegood was out by the time Percy got home. Madam Swainbrooke lay sprawled before the fireplace, snoring gently, two knitting needles and half a cardigan rising and falling with her considerable bosom. Careful not to disturb her, Percy hung his cloak as quietly as possible and crept upstairs. 

He changed his dress robes for a pair of striped pajamas and hung the robes neatly in his closet, casting a quick charm to get out the wrinkles. He sat down at his desk, shuffled through a few Scarlet Raven-related papers, and decided that so long as no emergencies came up, it could all wait another night. Perkins was undoubtedly out patrolling the toilets, he'd owl if anything came up ... 

Percy's mind went back to Minister Fudge's comments about Ron. He still couldn't fathom it. Ron -- a prefect? They'd made a prefect of the boy who flew a car into the Whomping Willow? Things had certainly changed since his days at Hogwarts, Percy reflected -- not to begrudge Ron's accomplishment, of course, it was a very good sign that he may have turned his act around since then. 

Whistling to Hermes, Percy went to his desk, whipped out a quill and began to write. 

_Dear Ron, _

I have only just heard (from no less a person than the Minister of Magic himself, who has it from your new teacher, Professor Umbridge) that you have become a Hogwarts prefect. 

I was most pleasantly surprised when I heard this news and must firstly offer my congratulations. I must admit that I have always been afraid that you would take what we might call the "Fred and George" route, rather than following in my footsteps, so you can imagine my feelings on hearing you have stopped flouting authority and have decided to shoulder some real responsibility. 

That looked good. A pleasant beginning -- friendly, congratulatory. A nice, easy way to end a summer-long estrangement. Encouraged, Percy dipped his quill again and went on to the crux of the matter. 

_But I want to give you more than congratulations, Ron, I want to give you some advice, which is why I am sending this at night rather than by the usual morning post. Hopefully you will be able to read this away from prying eyes and avoid awkward questions._

Again, Percy congratulated himself on his own sensitivity. Imagine reading this at breakfast, with Potter in the next seat wanting to know what it said! 

_From something the Minister let slip when telling me you are now a prefect, I gather that you are still seeing a lot of Harry Potter. I must tell you, Ron, that nothing could put you in danger of losing your badge more than continued fraternization with that boy. Yes, I am sure you are surprised to hear this -- no doubt you will say that Potter has always been Dumbledore's favorite -- but I feel bound to tell you that Dumbledore may not be in charge at Hogwarts much longer and the people who count have a very different -- and probably more accurate -- view of Potter's behavior. I shall say no more here, but if you look at the_ Daily Prophet _tomorrow you will get a good idea of the way the wind is blowing -- and see if you can spot yours truly!_

Putting in a spot of humor at the end was a good idea. It helped soften the words. Percy hated that he couldn't say what he wanted to -- that with Lord Voldemort as an enemy, running around with Harry Potter was suicide in more than the political sense -- but he was able to make his point despite the mask of denial. He hoped Ron would read the letter carefully enough, and think about it long enough, to divine what kind of danger he was in. 

_Seriously, Ron, you do not want to be tarred with the same brush as Potter, it could be very damaging to your future prospects, and I am talking here about life after school too. As you must be aware, given that our father escorted him to court, Potter had a disciplinary hearing this summer in front of the whole Wizengamot and he did not come out of it looking too good. He got off on a mere technicality if you ask me and many of the people I've spoken to remain convinced of his guilt._

Percy put down his quill and idly stroked Hermes' head. This was an issue he'd been fighting with for weeks. The idea of dementors on a Muggle street was ridiculous: Lord Voldemort wouldn't make such an obvious move, and no one else -- not even Minister Fudge -- seemed to bear such ill will toward the boy. Clearly, Potter and his Squib witness had been lying. But why? 

Harry Potter had defeated the Dark Lord twice and escaped him once. But -- Percy scratched his cheek with the quill uncomfortably -- no one knew how. This thought in hand, he bent to write a few more lines. 

_It may be that you are afraid to sever ties with Potter -- I know that he can be unbalanced and, for all I know, violent -- but if you have any worries about this, or have spotted anything else in Potter's behavior that is troubling you, I urge you to speak to Dolores Umbridge, a really delightful woman, who I know will be only too happy to advise you._

Percy nodded satisfactorily. He'd given sensible advice, enumerated his reasons and offered Umbridge as a higher-level authority. 

_This leads me to my other bit of advice. As I have hinted above, Dumbledore's regime at Hogwarts may soon be over. Your loyalty, Ron, should not be to him, but to the school and the Ministry. I am very sorry to hear that so far Professor Umbridge is encountering very little cooperation from staff as she strives to make those necessary changes within Hogwarts that the Ministry so ardently desires (although she should find this easier from next week -- again, see the Prophet tomorrow!). I shall say only this -- a student who shows himself willing to help Professor Umbridge now may be very well placed for Head Boyship in a couple of years!_

There were two dangerous places to be, Percy reflected, re-reading the letter: beside Harry Potter, and among Dumbledore's "old crowd." If history was any indication -- and Percy suspected that it was -- the Order of the Phoenix would be unorganized, ill-equipped, and constantly under attack from Voldemort's forces. 

And look who the organization included! Silly Hestia Jones and that clumsy Auror with the inconsistent hair. Mundungus Fletcher, for heaven's sake! As for the rest ... no werewolf is safe, no matter how sensible they may be during the rest of the month ... and nobody who has spent twelve years in Azkaban, innocent or not (Percy hadn't decided whether he believed the whole fantastic story about Sirius Black) can be fully reliable. 

The rest of the family was mature enough to gauge the risk, but Percy wanted Ron and Ginny as far away from the Order as they could get. 

_I am sorry that I was unable to see more of you over the summer. It pains me to criticize our parents, but I am afraid I can no longer live under their roof while they remain mixed up with the dangerous crowd around Dumbledore (if you are writing to Mother at any point, you might tell her that a certain Sturgis Podmore, who is a great friend of Dumbledore's, has recently been sent to Azkaban for trespass at the Ministry. Perhaps that will open their eyes to the kind of petty criminals with whom they are currently rubbing shoulders). I count myself very lucky to have escaped the stigma of association with such people -- the Minister really could not be more gracious to me -- and I do hope, Ron, that you will not allow family ties to blind you to the misguided nature of our parents' beliefs and actions either. I sincerely hope that, in time, they will realize how mistaken they were and I shall, of course, be ready to accept a full apology when that day comes. _

Please think over what I have said most carefully, particularly the bit about Harry Potter, and congratulations again on becoming prefect.   
Your brother,   
Percy 

Percy read the letter through twice before sending it. It was longer than he'd expected; his mother would call it "chatty". A nice chatty letter to his little brother, filled with sound advice, congratulations and best wishes. He had managed to be kind yet forthcoming, and -- he checked again, to be sure -- he'd given away nothing about how much he knew. A masterpiece. 

Rolling the parchment into a scroll and sealing it with wax, he addressed it carefully and handed it to Hermes. "Come right back," he ordered, stroking the owl's head. "I'll need you tomorrow." 

Hermes hooted obligingly and took off out the open window. 

Secure in his knowledge that he had done his brotherly duty, Percy yawned, stretched, and prepared for bed. It had been a long day. 


	6. DerringDon't

**Chapter Six: Derring-Don't**

Monday morning came around entirely too soon. Percy knocked over his alarm clock, as usual, fixed it, as usual, and went about his standard routine. 

He took his customary seat at the kitchen table and then did a double-take. Johnny Peasegood sat at the end of the table, mowing through a pile of pancakes and looking perfectly happy to be awake with the sun. Under less surprising circumstances, Percy would have come up with something more stinging, but all he managed was: 

"What the devil are _you_ doing up this early?" 

"Morning, Weasley," said Johnny, not in the least perturbed. 

Percy was empowered by the casual greeting. "How did you find out that this time of day existed?" he said loftily, wishing he'd come up with the line one moment earlier. 

"Swainbrooke told me," Johnny grinned, tipping a wink to the landlady as she bustled past with a basket of linens. 

"That's _Madam_ Swainbrooke, thou crude Yankee," she roared heartily over her shoulder. 

Percy seated himself, whipped out some parchments and got to work. Mother Swainbrooke stopped by long enough to drop a plate of flapjacks in front of him and then whisked away, whistling a tune that sounded bawdy even without words. 

Percy was just about to write an exceptionally good line when Johnny's voice broke in and robbed him of the word he had been seeking for several moments. 

"I'm going to lunch with Uncle Arnold, actually, and thought I'd get an early start on the day." 

Percy snorted even as his fork was nearing his mouth. "What on earth do you intend to do with your early start?" 

"Oh, you know, the usual," said Johnny carelessly, putting his hands behind his head. "Loaf. Loiter. Pick up a girl and do some -- what do you folks call it? Smogging?" 

"I believe," said Percy through clenched teeth, "that the correct term is 'snogging'." 

"Yeah, that!" said Johnny jovially. He gave Percy a hearty slap on the back, sending his quill flying into the oatmeal. "Ought to try it some time. Do you good." 

"I _have_ tried it, thank you very much," said Percy hotly, "and right now I would rather be finishing my extremely important report for the Minister of Magic!" 

Johnny grabbed an apple from the bowl on the table and peered over Percy's shoulder. "Cauldron bottoms, huh?" 

_"Do you mind!"_

"Come on, play hooky with me," Johnny begged. He plopped down on the bench beside Percy. "Be a sport. Just this once. I'll show you the bottom of a glass of firewhiskey -- put _that_ in your report!" 

"Owls are here, lads!" 

Mother Swainbrooke entered, bearing no fewer than five owls on her massive shoulders. Four flapped up at the sight of Johnny and fluttered about his head, chittering to each other and jostling to deliver their letters, many of which were written on pastel-colored stationery. Hermes let out a disdainful hoot and soared to Percy's shoulder. 

The letter was from Charlie. It was short -- Charlie didn't go in for writing much -- and polite, with briefly noted family news and a quick hope that he was doing well in London. The ending was unsurprising. 

            _Mum misses you. Send her an owl sometime soon.   
            -Charlie
_

Percy let out an uncharacteristically heartfelt sigh. Johnny looked up from the lacy, scented note he was reading in time to see Percy tuck the letter into the pocket of his cloak. He eyed up the situation shrewdly, then said casually, 

"Who's the letter from?" 

"My brother," said Percy, without looking up. 

Johnny sounded surprised and mildly impressed. "I didn't know you had a brother." He paused. "Or any siblings at all, for that matter." 

"As a matter of fact, I have six." 

"Six!" Johnny clutched his chest. "Good lord, Percy! What flavor?" 

"Three brothers, one sister and a pair of twin criminals." 

Johnny laughed. "You're funny, Perce. You know that?" 

Percy put down his quill and looked over at Johnny. "I've never been told that in my entire life." 

"Well, it's true." Johnny scratched a quick note on the back of one letter and sent the owl on its way. "I guess you're the oldest, then." 

"Third, actually," said Percy, who had gone back to his report. 

"No, you're too responsible," said Johnny, as if it were a point to be disputed. He scrawled another note and the second owl fluttered away. 

"If that's the criteria, you must be the youngest," Percy said. 

"Right in one," Johnny said easily. "Susquehanna's responsible enough for the pair of us. She's in Greece," he added unnecessarily. "She's appalled that I chose drafty old England for my European getaway. I like it, though -- just like it was in _Oliver Twist_, isn't it?" 

"If only it was," muttered Percy, getting a strong and enjoyable image of Johnny in debtor's prison. 

"Will you look at that," Johnny said fondly, reading a letter on heart-shaped paper. "Jacqueline wrote back. Well, I guess I'm hard to forget --" 

Percy left for work before Johnny had finished answering his mail. 

He picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet on the way to the Ministry. He was three steps away before he realized what was on the front page. Then he went back and bought out the newsstand. 

After work, Percy made a beeline for Diagon Alley. He came to the steps of the Library of Gramarye and stood there stiffly beside one of the flanking stone eagles, watching the bustle of shoppers and commuters that filled the sidewalks at this time of day. Finally the sound of a creaking door caught his attention and he turned around. Penelope emerged from the library, putting up the hood of her cloak against the autumn chill. He brightened at the sight of her. 

"Penny!" 

She caught sight of him and smiled. "Hello, Percy." 

"Did you see me in the Prophet?" 

"You sent three copies to my door," said Penelope dryly, pecking him on the cheek. "How could I miss it?" 

"I thought your parents would like one." 

His voice was eager. He clearly had no idea how pretentious he sounded. "_Your_ parents might like a copy," she reminded him gently. 

"They've stopped getting the Prophet," he said, trying to make the comment sound casual. "They think it's rubbish." 

"Oh." Penelope took his arm and they started down the crowded street. "How did the dinner party go?" 

"It was smashing." His voice lit up again. "I had a chance to meet some of the most powerful wizards in the country -- they're not always the ones in office, you know," he added smugly. "Movers and shakers. Madam Umbridge was simply delightful. The Malfoy Manor is spectacular ..." 

She let him talk all the way back to Mother Swainbrooke's. 

***

The cool, bright days of September passed slowly, and very pleasantly. The Loo Bandit didn't resurface, so Percy and Perkins gave up on their nighttime vigil in favor of letting one of Perkins' Dark Detectors monitor a map of London for suspicious spells. 

Percy told everyone in the office about the Malfoys' party, but no one seemed as interested as Penelope had been. He didn't notice. 

Late in the month he got a letter by evening owl post: 

_

He's back. Get over here.

_

"Here" was Perkins' place. "He" could be none other than the Loo Bandit. Percy gathered his things and hurried out the door. 

When he got there, Perkins was hunched over the table poking angrily at his Dark Detectors. 

"I had this thing set for every reversal jinx for twenty miles," grumbled Perkins, whacking around a squiggly golden aerial. "Bloody thing's on the fritz --" The aerial wiggled feebly and curled in on itself as if in remorse. 

Percy hid a smile. "So when did you hear about it?" 

"This morning," said Perkins, curling his lip. "Had to spend the best part of the day wading around in muck and fixing toilets. You keep your mouth shut," he added to Percy, who was now grinning broadly. 

"Same fellow?" 

Perkins shook his head. "Copycat. I saw the first three, they were geysers. This one was barely bubbling over the seat. Still made a right old mess," he added dolefully, "as if the department has nothing better to do than Banish sewage ... _go ahead and laugh, you're not bloody underfunded!"_

By now Percy was howling. 

"I ought to --" 

What Perkins ought to do was never explained. A fierce buzzing broke over his speech. 

Percy stopped laughing long enough to see where the noise was coming from. "The Secrecy Sensor!" The aerial hummed violently, its tip fixed to the map before it. 

"By George, it _does_ work!" cried Perkins. "Pointing to ... let's see ... downtown London. Get your suit on, Raven me boy, the Floo'll drop you right at the scene of the crime!" 

Percy had already torn off his glasses and was tying the mask over his face. "What street?" 

"Gresham," Perkins said excitedly. He hustled to the closet and pulled out a pair of deep red, knee-high leather boots. "Use the Seven-League Boots," he ordered, thrusting them at Percy. "In case he runs. I'll be watching the mirror if you need backup. Don't let him get away!" 

"Believe me," said Percy, fastening a pair of dragon-hide gloves, "I won't." 

He tossed a pinch of powder in the fire, cried "Gresham Street, London!" and strode into the flame. 

***

Percy sprang up like a beanstalk from the small bonfire in the sewers. 

The air was musty and damp with decay; the stone walls bore testament to the years of neglect. Percy stepped out of the fire and straightened his collar. Tossing a Sickle to the tramp hunched beside it (who tipped his hat in thanks), he scaled a slender metal ladder and poked his head out of the manhole. 

Things were quiet here. He slipped through the manhole and onto the street. 

Gresham Street was a shopping district, by the looks of it; neat, uniform storefronts turned their blank dark faces to the road. A few lights were on in upstairs rooms, but altogether the street looked dead ... that was how Percy preferred it, and he was sure that the Loo Bandit thought the same. 

He looked around. The public toilet stood discreetly on a small lot near the corner, one of those big plastic coin-operated jobs. Percy slunk closer. He pulled a miniature Sneakoscope from his pocket and flipped it on -- then disabled it right away as it went into a whistling frenzy. This was it. All he had to do was wait ... 

The door of the toilet swung open. 

The man who strolled out was short and grubby, chortling unpleasantly to himself. He got two steps before he ran smack into Percy. 

The man reeled back and Percy rose to his full height. "Regurgitating toilets, eh? You're red-handed this time. Under the provisions for citizens' arrest outlined in Ministerial Decree number eighty-two, I am -- _oof!"_

Percy had expected a magical attack, not a clout in the stomach. He staggered backward, clutching his middle. The criminal shoved past and took off down the road. 

Percy forced himself to straighten. If the villain hadn't thought to Apparate yet, there was still hope. He took two steps, bent his knees, and leapt into the air. 

The Seven-League boots shot him forward like a cannonball. He flew over the man's head and landed lightly several yards before him. He sprang up and around. _"Petrificus totalus!"_

The man threw himself sideways into an alley. Percy could hear the spell zing around the close-set walls like a pinball. Then loud running footsteps started up again. Gritting his teeth, he darted into the alleyway with his hand outstretched. 

"Not so fast you don't --" 

His hands closed around the stranger's head. The man grunted, twisted, and poked his wand into Percy's ribcage. 

_"Supplantum!"_

It was like someone had pulled a rug out from under him. Percy's feet went flying and he landed on his back in the pitch-black alley. Groaning, he rolled over. 

_"Catalepsia!"_

That one was close. It would be suicide to stand. Percy army-crawled forward, virtually blinded in the dark. He could still hear his quarry somewhere before him. He pointed his wand in the general "forward" direction, hoping the fellow wasn't zigzagging as he ran. 

_"Impedimentia! Petrificus totalus! Tarantallegra!"_ The spells bounced harmlessly off the alley walls. _"Incendio!"_

The man let out a short shriek as his hat went up in flames. In the firelight, Percy had time to see the man raise his wand. He disappeared with a cracking noise and a puff of white smoke. 

With him went the fire, and the alley was plunged into darkness. 

Percy slammed a fist onto the ground. So _close_ -- He swore creatively, stood up sneering, and Disapparated. 

***

He reappeared in Perkins' living room. 

The old man raised his head excitedly at the sight of his return. "Well? 

"I _had_ him, Perkins! I had him in my _hands!"_ He collapsed onto Perkins' sofa. 

"Did you --" 

"Barely a glimpse!" Percy tore off his mask and dropped it onto the floor. "He's on the short side ... that's not enough to put on a _poster,_ let alone convict someone with!" He put his hands over his face. 

Perkins was silent for a minute. "You didn't fix the toilet, did you?" he said hopefully. 

Percy shot him a look of disgust. 

"Had to ask," said Perkins. "Otherwise I've got to pretend I don't know it's happened, and some fool Muggle will activate it tomorrow morning and there we'll be slogging around in goodness-knows-what and wasting another perfectly good day ..." 

Suddenly Percy sat upright. "I had him in my --" 

He leapt out of the sofa and tore across the room. Snatching his gloves from the floor, he threw them onto Perkins' dining room table and bent his face close to one, then the other. Finally he hooted triumphantly and whirled around. Between two fingers he held a single human hair. 

_"In my hands!"_

Perkins let out a whoop. "Good show, boy, you're not as thick as you look!" 

Percy's eyes were alight. "Where do you keep your Polyjuice starter?" 

"In the icebox, behind the yogurt. I'll fetch the camera!" 

Five minutes later, Percy had a glass of pustule-brown goop in his hand and he was slugging it back as if it was pumpkin juice. 

He finished it with a grimace and placed the dirty glass neatly in Perkins' sink. Then he clasped both hands to his gut. "Urgh ..." He collapsed onto Perkins' kitchen floor. 

Perkins watched the writhing, painful transformation implacably. When it was over, and the stranger stood up shaking, Perkins handed him a glass of water and looked him over. 

The man was small but stocky -- well used to insults that ended in fights, Perkins guessed. The prickly brown hair along his scalp was beginning to turn gray. Greedy little eyes huddled close to a squashed-looking nose. He put down the glass of water and dabbed his mouth meticulously with a napkin. Then he turned to Perkins. 

"How do I look?" 

"Like a right old scoundrel," said Perkins. He held up the camera. "Say cheese." 

They took photographs from the front, back and both sides. Percy went into the bathroom to check himself for tattoos (causing the mirror to let out a wolf-whistle which was audible from the hall) and came back with nothing to report but a long scar on one buttock which, they both agreed, they would not use for identification once they caught him. The stranger was weighed (14 stone), measured (5'7") and fingerprinted -- Perkins didn't see the point but Percy insisted that it couldn't hurt. He walked around the living room for a full half-hour, carefully watching the silhouette in the mirror and hoping desperately to see it again soon. Perkins developed the photos while they were waiting for the potion to wear off, and as soon as they were done the two of them sat around the living room, flipping through mug shots. 

"I'll pick up the Big Book of Burglars from the Aurors' office and check him against the photos during lunch," Perkins promised. 

"And I'll see if Fudge has any useful files," said Percy. 

"Or any photographs of 'im on the wall," snorted Perkins. 

Percy ignored the slight on his boss's integrity. "Once we know who he is, we can find him," he mused, "but catching him may be another story." He sat back in the chair thoughtfully. "Part of the problem was that I just couldn't see him ... that's how I caught his face on fire," he added. 

"You what now?" 

"I need new gear." 

Perkins snorted. "Huh. In my days with the Aurors, _we_ made do with what we had! None of this, 'I can't see in the dark, I need new gear' nonsense ..." 

Percy was already clearing out his pockets. "How much gold do you have put away?" 

"Fifty Galleons in the Raven fund, and ten in my underwear drawer." 

Percy glanced over at him. "I don't want the ten." 

"I wasn't going to give it to you," Perkins sniffed. 

"But I'm going to need thirty or so," Percy went on, counting out a handful of Sickles. "I can spare twenty or twenty-five. And we need a buffer, in case he decides to haggle ..." 

"Hang on, sprout," Perkins said, putting out his hands, "you haven't told me what you want to buy yet!" 

Percy looked up at him with a glint in his eye. "An artifact," he said, with a slow smile. "A very valuable, very illegal artifact." 

***

When Percy let himself into the boarding house at one o'clock that morning, the lights were still on in the living room. 

Johnny Peasegood lounged in front of the fireplace, nursing a butterbeer and musing at the flames. At the sound of the door he twisted around; catching sight of Percy, he gave a lazy grin. 

"Where've you been all night?" 

Percy was almost too surprised to answer. "Er -- working. What are you doing home so early?" 

"Bar caught fire. I had to remove myself from the premises." 

"Good lord." Percy accepted the butterbeer that Johnny handed him and sat down on the sofa. "How'd it happen?" 

"The fire? Some chap came flying in with his head in flames. We dunked him in a barrel of gillywater but apparently that's a bad idea." Johnny shrugged elaborately. 

Percy stared at him. So that was where the criminal had Disapparated to. "But gillywater's not flammable ... is it?" 

"Oh, yeah." Johnny nodded his head. "Like kerosene. Went up like a Roman candle." He sighed and took a swig of his butterbeer. 

"And the ... chap?" Percy had to stop himself from saying "criminal". 

Johnny shrugged again. "They doused him with some club soda and he ran out again. He was a mess. And he smelled like raw sewage." 

Percy felt his temples start to throb. He finished half the butterbeer in one swig. 

"Nice," said Johnny appreciatively, and matched him with half of his own. 

~~~~~~~~~~   
The idea of Polyjuice starter was filched from Gwena Lanish, whom I used to beta-read for until I fell off the face of the earth. (Sorry, Gwen.) She's a great writer, and most famous for cowriting The Tough Guide to Harry Potter along with Rugi. You can find her work on this site or on Sugarquill.com. 


	7. Give the Boy a Hand

**Chapter Seven: Give the Boy a Hand**

The shop was empty at dusk. Mr. Borgin, muttering to himself behind his musty showcase, began putting away the countertop displays and emptied the till into a double-locked, triple-hexed box beneath the counter. 

The bell above the door jingled. 

The silhouette in the door was one that Borgin had never seen before. On the tall side, slender, the figure carried himself with confidence. _Money,_ Borgin thought instantly, and put on his best, biggest, greasiest smile. 

"Welcome to Borgin and Burkes, sir," he said, as the figure approached the counter. "Purveyors of useful art and artifacts. Is there somethin' special I can help you find? Anything ... unusual?" 

The stranger stopped at the counter. His face was completely hidden with a scarf and a hat pulled low over his brow. Under the shadow cast by the hat's brim, a pair of brown eyes took in the entire shop at once before settling coolly on Borgin's face. 

"I want the Hand of Glory." 

Borgin's shrewd eyes twinkled. "Ah, yes sir! A fine item, very dear -- been in my shop for many years." He hustled around the corner and led the stranger over to a display case. On the second shelf lay a shriveled human hand, palm-up, with gnarled fingers curled in slightly to hold a tea light in place. 

"Gives light only to the bearer," said Borgin reverently. "The best friend of a thief or burglar. I've had some fine wizards inquire after it." 

"It will never happen again," said the stranger coolly. "I'll give you fifty Galleons." 

Borgin made a noise of disgust, which he hastily turned into a rather toady sort of laugh. "A fine jest," he wheezed, still chuckling unpleasantly. "Of course your eminence realizes that the Hand is worth five times that." 

"Of course," said the man amiably. "But let me remind you of some additional facts, Mr. Borgin. I know whom I am dealing with. You do not. I can find you at any time. You cannot reciprocate. And while the Hand of Glory has been 'inquired after', as you say, the object has been here on your shelf for almost fifteen years." 

A muscle twitched in Borgin's cheek. 

"You're unlikely to sell it soon, Mr. Borgin. And is business really so good that you can turn down an offer?" 

"Business is fair," said Borgin evenly, but the lie showed on his face and the tattering seams of his jacket. 

"Sixty Galleons, then." The stranger reached to his belt and lifted up a heavy leather sack. "I pay immediately." 

Borgin licked his lips. Sixty Galleons today? Or the chance at two hundred Galleons tomorrow? He let his eyes roam the shop while he turned over the option. You couldn't eat a chance. "The worth of the object ..." he began, a whine creeping into his voice. 

"Sixty-five Galleons, Mr. Borgin, and that is my final offer. Accept or I shall have to acquire the Hand another way which will be far less profitable to you." 

Threats were not uncommon in Knockturn Alley, and they were never idle. Borgin knew when to cut his losses. He forced a smile to his greasy face. 

"Hard bargain, sir, but I'll accept your generosity." 

The stranger nodded politely. "I had hoped you would. Thank you, Mr. Borgin." He held out the sack of gold. At the last moment he pulled it back from Borgin's reach. 

"You'll count seventy Galleons," he said, lowering his voice. "The five are for your silence. Under inquiry, the Hand was purchased by a young witch from Whitehall. Am I clearly understood?" 

"Quite clearly, your eminence," said Borgin. Hot dog -- another five Galleons. Now he could take that cruise to Majorca. 

"Excellent." The stranger handed over the sack of gold and carefully lifted the Hand of Glory from the shelf. The papery skin crackled under his gloves, fingers twitching restlessly toward the owner. The stranger looked it over, then glanced back at Borgin. 

"Do you have a box for this?" 

***

Percy popped through Perkins' fireplace a few minutes later. Perkins, hunched over a large photo album on the sofa, glanced up and noted the box that the young man carried under his arm. 

"How much did it cost me?" 

"Seventy, all told," said Percy, placing the box on Perkins' end table. "Forty of it was yours." 

"Forty!" Perkins threw up his hands. "You take my favorite boots, you eat my food, now you spend my retirement fund!" 

"I need those boots," Percy pointed out. "Anyway, in return you get a city safe for Muggles." 

Perkins raised his eyebrows. 

"And you get to watch the Guardian sword beat the tar out of me three times a week." 

"Now that's worth the money," Perkins conceded. "Well, I guess we'd better have a look at it." 

He reached for the box while Percy plunked down on the sofa and pulled off the Seven-League Boots. The young man changed his mask for his glasses; the old one rolled up his sleeves and set about working his best anti-theft charms. 

Percy bent over the photo album that Perkins had left behind. "The Big Book of Burglars, eh?" he said, adjusting his spectacles. "I'm surprised the Aurors let you check it out overnight." 

"Told them it was for old times' sake," Perking said, peering closely at the thumbprint of the shriveled hand. "I think there's a good match on page eight forty-seven." 

Percy flipped through the book until he reached the page. The face snarling out at him was younger, fuller, but unmistakably the one that he had worn under the Polyjuice potion. "I think you're right," Percy said, leaning closer. 

Perkins let out a tsk. "Somebody's let these nails grow long. We'll have to trim 'em or the flame will be lax." 

"Willy Widdershins," Percy read, "Born 1939. Convicted of pickpocketry, fraud, petty theft, burglary, highway robbery, simple assault, aggravated assault, purse-snatching, broomstick theft, trading of regulated items, trading of regulated creatures, tampering with Muggle artifacts, and littering. Most recently booked under charges of toad theft." Percy raised an eyebrow. "Toad theft?" 

"Poor thing needs a manicure," Perkins muttered, picking at a hangnail. 

There was a knock on the door. 

Both of them jerked upright like stoats smelling danger. The apartment burst into activity. 

Percy grabbed the boots, mask and gloves and shoved them under the sofa. Perkins threw the Hand of Glory into its box, ran across the room and chucked the whole thing into the icebox. He turned a knob on one of the kitchen chairs and the whole tabletop display -- map, aerials and everything -- sank into the wood as if it were quicksand. Percy snatched the pile of photographs of Willy Widdershins from the coffee table and stuffed them into the grandfather clock. He picked up the scarlet cloak, cast about for a few moments, then shrank it to the size of a handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. The Big Book of Burglars, after a few seconds' deliberation, went under a sofa cushion. 

The door creaked open. 

"Chester? Are you all right?" 

Eyes slightly panicky, Perkins snatched the Sneakoscope from a chair and tossed it to Percy, who deposited it in a nearby vase. "Arabella! In here ..." 

Mrs. Figg's wrinkled face appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. "Not meeting me at the door any more?" she accused fondly, dropping her carpet bag by the door and giving him a peck on the cheek. "I hope you're in the mood for beef pie." She whisked out a luscious-looking pie. Percy's stomach grumbled its longing. 

She glanced in his direction and gave a start. Perkins darted forward and saved the pie from hitting the floor. 

"Hex my bones!" she gasped. "Young Mr. Weasley! I didn't realize you had company," she said to Perkins, holding her hand over her heart. 

"He's just leaving," said Perkins pointedly, but Percy strode forward and broke over his words loudly. 

"Mrs. Figg, I'm delighted! I hadn't expected that when I dropped by on Ministry business I'd have the pleasure of seeing you again." He reached out gallantly and kissed her hand. Perkins rolled his eyes. "I was on my way out -- haven't had supper yet, you see, I thought I'd pick up something on the way ..." 

Mrs. Figg, whose faded cheeks had turned pink with pleasure, held out both hands toward him. "You stop right there, I won't hear of it. What your mother would say if I sent you away with nothing in your stomach! You stay right here and eat with us. I insist." 

"Now, Figgy, you don't want to hold up the boy," said Perkins gruffly, glaring at Percy. 

Percy was already pulling out a chair for Mrs. Figg. "If you insist, Madam. I don't know which I'm looking forward to more -- the pleasure of your company or the delight of your cooking!" 

He and Mrs. Figg laughed together. Perkins muttered something about freeloaders and slunk off to set the table. 

***

The doorbell chimed. 

"I've got it," called Mr. Clearwater, half-rising from his easy chair, pipe in hand. 

"You sit right there," Penelope ordered, bustling past and fluffing her hair. "That's Percy. _I'll_ get the door. Now don't you dare start making a fuss about -- about anything, do you understand?" 

"Aye aye," her father said wryly, settling back down. 

"Percy!" cried her mother from the doorway. "So good to see you again. Congratulations on that promotion!" 

Her father allowed himself a smile. Penelope rolled her eyes. 

Percy's voice carried through the house. "Mrs. Clearwater, it's wonderful to see you again, I've been looking forward to your cooking for weeks now! Thank you, Minister Fudge has been really splendid to me, I'm doing all I can to earn the position!" 

_Oh no,_ Penelope groaned inwardly, _he's doing that pomposity thing._

"Mr. Clearwater!" Percy entered the den and shook Penelope's father's hand vigorously. "Pleasure to see you again. How's the automotive business?" 

"Fine," said Mr. Clearwater blandly. 

"Splendid to hear it. My!" He sniffed the air appreciatively. "Something smells fantastic." 

"Hullo, Percy," said Penelope. 

"Penny." He held out both arms to greet her and kissed her cheek when she came to him. "You're looking lovely." 

"And you're in fine form," Penelope murmured. She cleared her throat. "Dinner's all ready, let's talk while we eat, all right?" 

"Lead on," he said grandly, and they followed Mrs. Clearwater into the kitchen. 

Penelope's mother had insisted on using the best china and silverware. She had even gone to the trouble of hunting down her grandmothers' old silk napkins -- Penelope regretted ever having passed on Percy's description of the Malfoys' dinner. She'd tried to explain how Percy was raised on a shoestring, how he'd learned to be grateful for anything and he'd never look down on a humble meal, but here it was, silk napkins and everything. Mrs. Clearwater was a people-pleaser. 

"I know it's not much," her mother was saying airily, "but the food is going to be just scrumptious -- my best casserole, it's Roger's favorite, isn't it Roger dear?" 

Mr. Clearwater grunted around his pipe. 

"I can hardly wait," said Percy, seating himself at Mrs. Clearwater's gestured invitation. Penelope and her father sat down as well. Mrs. Clearwater bustled to the oven. 

There came a tapping noise from the window. 

"I'll get it," said Mrs. Clearwater cheerfully. She'd gotten quite used to owl post since her daughters' years at Hogwarts. She propped open the window and then reached into the stove and pulled out her casserole. Through the open window soared a handsome eagle owl that dropped a letter to Percy's empty plate and then settled on his shoulder. 

Percy scanned the letter quickly and his brow furrowed. He looked up at Penelope, who was watching him expectantly. 

"I'm sorry. I'm needed right away." 

He folded the letter, put it in his pocket, and stood up with Hermes on his shoulder. 

Penelope stared at him for a moment before she too got to her feet. "You're ... needed? Right now?" 

Percy looked over at her, but she could see in his eyes that his mind was already elsewhere. "I'm afraid this can't wait. Mrs. Clearwater, I'm so sorry ..." He turned to Penelope's mother, who still held the casserole dish in her gloved hands. "It smells wonderful. Mr. Clearwater, I was really looking forward to chatting with you." Mr. Clearwater, puffing his pipe, did not look impressed. "I hope to see you all soon." He started for the door. 

Penelope caught him as his hand grasped the knob. 

"Percy, you can't just leave. My parents --" 

He looked down at the doorknob instead of at her face. 

"Penny, I wish I could stay, but there's simply nothing I can do. Now please let go of my arm. I'm wasting time." 

Penelope's stomach seemed to shrink and grow cold. Slowly she took away her hand. 

"I'll see you soon. I promise." Percy leaned over and kissed her forehead. Then he strode onto the porch, took out his wand, and vanished. 

Penelope closed the door. She turned back to her parents. 

For long moments they looked at one another. Then her mother set down the casserole and put on her best, brightest smile. 

"So. Who's hungry?" 

***

Percy reappeared on a rooftop in Kensington, in full Raven attire. He had Hermes on one shoulder. 

"Stay quite close," he muttered to Hermes, and the owl fluttered obediently into the night. 

He crouched on the edge of the roof. From there he could see up and down the street. The road was packed with buildings, but not a public toilet in sight ... A flash of light, no more than a flicker, caught his eyes. Across the street, a steep set of stairs led beneath the sidewalk into a London Underground station. There must be a toilet down there somewhere. Percy took out his wand and leapt from the roof. 

The boots carried him across the street and down to the opposite sidewalk. He crouched by the rail for a moment, to be sure the coast was clear; then he slipped onto the stairs and crept down into the Underground. 

The place was pitch-black -- the fellow must have shorted all the security lights as a precaution. There should be tighter regulations on the possession of a Put-Outer, Percy sniffed inwardly. He'd have to see if a committee could be formed -- 

But that was for another time. Right now, he needed light. Carefully, he pulled a small candle from his pocket and settled it into the palm of the Hand of Glory. He tapped it with his wand. 

Light streamed from the withered fingers. A small room would have been nearly filled with light -- in the wide underground station, with the deep tracks leading into a tunnel, the light was just strong enough to bring out the shapes of benches and turnstiles. Two recessed doorways stood side by side along the wall. Percy raised the Hand over his head like a torch. _Ladies_ and _Gentlemen_ -- bingo. 

Deftly, he leapt the turnstile and crept to the door. A slight scuttling noise came from the ladies' lavatory. This man had no shame. And he was -- yes -- Percy leaned closer. He was humming to himself, a cheery little tune that echoed against the empty toilet stalls. It made a weird soundtrack in the silent cement station. 

Percy weighed his options. He could burst in and interrupt the fellow right now; he was sure he hadn't made a sound, and no one could see the light from the Hand of Glory but him. He could wait and collar him after he came out. Or -- 

The lavatory door swung open. 

Or he could get surprised. Again. 

Percy wasted no time. He whipped out his wand, pointed it straight at the emerging criminal, and bellowed, _"Catalepsia!"_

Willy Widdershins had just enough time to widen his eyes before the stream of silver wandlight smacked him in the chest. 

He was lifted from his feet and flew backward six feet before landing on his back in the middle of the linoleum. He mustered a groan and went completely limp. 

Percy thrust his wand back in his pocket. "That was easy." 

He looked down at the man, out cold on the floor, and gave a sharp whistle. Hermes came soaring down the stairs and lighted on a sink. Percy scribbled out a note and held it out for Hermes to take with his beak. "Kingsley Shacklebolt," he instructed. "And quickly, please." 

Hermes ruffled his feathers cockily and took off. 

Percy leaned against the wall for a while, looking over the criminal. He thought about the man's buttock scar and winced. If only they hadn't had to take that measure. The Polyjuice was a good idea, but frankly he didn't want to repeat the tactic. 

His eyes strayed to the toilets. The criminal was captured, but the damage had been done ... 

A slow smile crossed his face. 

Percy went to the nearest toilet, flushed, and ran. 

The geyser was stunning. Percy, having made it outside of the bathroom just in time, watched in satisfaction as murky water rained down on Willy Widdershins. The man stirred and moaned but did not awaken. Percy smiled. Poetic justice was the most rewarding kind. 

A loud cracking sound came from up on the sidewalk. The cavalry had arrived. Percy dropped the criminal's wand in the middle of the floor and Disapparated. 

He reappeared back on the rooftop. From there, he could see the lights of the underground station come back on, and eventually all fell silent. Hermes fluttered up and lighted on his shoulder proudly. 

"Good night's work," Percy said, tickling the owl behind the neck. 

Hermes hooted bashfully and hid his head under his wing. 


	8. Matters of State

**Chapter Eight: Matters of State**

Minister Fudge was already in his office by the time Percy got there Monday morning, and he wasn't alone; Kingsley Shacklebolt stood calmly before the desk, speaking in his slow serious voice. Percy stopped in the doorway uncertainly. 

"We need to find him, Minister," Kingsley was saying. "He's been a big help." 

"He sounds quite dodgy to me," said Minister Fudge. 

"He brought in the fellow behind the toilet jinxes," Kingsley said, and Percy felt an odd jolt in his chest. "We need ..." 

"Shacklebolt!" said Fudge sharply. "It is your job, is it not, to police the wizarding world -- and not the Muggle one?" 

"Yes, Minister," said Kingsley, his deep voice cool. "But in this case, the worlds touch." 

"Not enough to spend our valuable Aurors on!" Fudge sounded genuinely irate. "If we make a fuss about these Muggle pranksters it'll only help confirm those ridiculous rumors about -- well, you know -- coming back. We cannot afford that, Shacklebolt." 

Kingsley made a small bow. "I understand, Minister." Percy thought that his eyes showed a shrewder understanding that his words let on. 

Fudge's eyes slipped to the door and he noticed Percy for the first time. "Weasley! Good to see you, I have an important decree for you to work up." He sat down at his desk without another glance at Kingsley, who bowed again and left silently. 

Percy scurried to his desk and whipped out his quill. "Shall we begin with the dictation, sir?" 

"No, that won't be necessary, Weasley. I've already written it up over the weekend." 

That was odd. The Minister rarely visited the office on weekends, and he never wrote his own documents. "Oh," said Percy. "Then ..." 

Minister Fudge brought over a parchment and laid it on Percy's desk. "Educational Decree number twenty-four," Percy read aloud. "Concerning the jurisdiction of the Hogwarts High Inquisitor over school organizations, and regulations concerning activities of same." 

"I signed this into effect over the weekend," Fudge explained. His voice came out slightly more quickly than usual. "Sort of a rush, you see ... fully legal, but it hasn't been through all the technicalities, so to speak. We simply need to ... give it the full weight of the law. Do you understand?" 

"Yes, sir," said Percy, which was a lie. Ministerial decrees had to go through a Wizengamot committee and be notarized by the British Bureaucratic Headquarters. There was no way it could be legalized in one day, especially a Sunday. 

"Splendid. Then I'll have you copy that to Punks, Wagner and Anderson -- they've put their full weight behind this measure already, informally you see -- and I'll ask you to take this down to the Bureaucratic people and whisk it through the appropriate channels. Just hand-deliver it to everyone, usual procedure, just -- speeded up a bit." 

"All right." What was the rush for? Percy recovered himself. "I mean, right away, sir." 

"That's the spirit!" said Fudge. "Right away. Yes, the sooner the better ..." He trailed off. Then he glanced over at Percy. "Well, get on it, lad!" 

Percy jumped. "Yes, sir!" He hunched over the document and set his quill flying. 

***

"Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business." 

"Penelope Clearwater. I'm here to meet my -- ah, someone after work." 

"Thank you. Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes." 

The phone spat out a silver badge with the words _Penelope Clearwater, Meeting Someone After Work_ on it. Penelope fixed it to the front of her robes while the automatic greeter droned on about security protocol and the floor of the phone booth lowered her below the sidewalk. She got out of the booth and walked down the gorgeous hall toward the Ministry. She stopped by the Fountain of Magical Brethren and loitered. The witch on afternoon security cast her a funny look, but she ignored that. No need for a security check; she wasn't going inside. 

It was no wonder that Percy was so proud of working here, she thought to herself. The blue-and-gold ceiling, the hardwood floors ... it was elegant, and organized in its elegance: two things that Percy always strove for. 

The lobby was soothing; it was hard for her to remember her purpose in coming. _Don't let it slip past,_ she chided herself. _You have to tell him off for running off in the middle of a meal. Before a meal, even. Otherwise he'll never realize it was rude ..._

Percy had never been very good at judging other people. She'd known that from the start, and she realized what an effort he'd put into trying to understand her, even if he didn't always succeed. She smiled as she thought of the many letters he had written when they were first getting to know each other. They could be dashing or gentle, occasionally even droll: 

_Dear Penny, I would rather have you than ten O.W.L.s -- maybe not twelve O.W.L.s -- but definitely ten O.W.L.s, assuming I could have you as well as the nine remaining O.W.L.s ..._

It was, largely, his words that had wooed her -- those and the sweet little boy, desperate to be accepted, hiding beneath his pompous exterior. 

She worried sometimes that the pomposity was taking over. 

Since the summer he'd been less willing to show his tender side, and more absorbed in his work than ever. More and more evenings he would stay in his flat working, or go dashing off on some mysterious but urgent assignment for the Minister. She knew that his self-motivation and dedication to his work were unsurpassed. It just seemed that sometimes ... she wanted ... 

"Penny! What are you doing here?" 

Percy came hurrying past security and into the lobby. For a second, the look on his face was startlingly familiar -- almost the same as it had been back when they were both prefects, hiding their relationship. Then he stood before her, and the memory passed. 

"Madam Graybill let me off early," said Penelope, because he looked so startled. "I wanted to come meet you after work." 

"I wish you'd have owled me," said Percy, not maliciously, "I wouldn't have kept you waiting." 

Together they rode the elevator to the surface and emerged from the visitor's entrance. They walked for a few blocks without speaking. 

_How nice,_ thought Percy, _that we can be comfortable in silence._

_I have got to say something,_ thought Penelope. 

One block later, she got up her courage. 

"Did it go well?" 

Percy looked over at her blankly. "Did what go well?" 

"Whatever you left to do the other night," Penelope frowned. "Did it go well?" 

"Oh, yes." Percy beamed. He grabbed her around the waist, swung her once, and kissed her deeply. "Yes, it went _very_ well." 

"Oh." Penelope's face flushed; she hadn't been expecting him to be so happy. "I'm glad, then." 

"Come over to dinner tonight," he said, impulsively taking her hands. "Mother Swainbrooke's always got more than enough, and if we're lucky Johnny'll be out on the town already ..." 

Penelope's cheeks burned an even hotter red. Now he wanted to have dinner with her! "I can't," she said, somewhat coldly. "I've already promised my parents I'd eat with them." 

He did not get the hint. "Fair enough," he said. "Are you busy afterward?" 

Penelope sighed. "I suppose not." Blast those big brown eyes, and the adorable way they looked at her! "Shall I meet you at your --" 

He kissed her again. 

"... your place," she finished dizzily, a few minutes later. 

"I'll tell Madam Swainbrooke to have some tea ready," he promised. 

Penelope watched as he strode away down the street. Endearing prat ... A swirl of autumn leaves skated around her feet. Framed in the setting sun, she turned and walked home. 

***

The last golden days of October bled into a cold and uneventful winter. Percy spent more time playing cards with Perkins than hunting down criminals; most Muggle-baiters, it seemed, preferred to work under warmer conditions. He never managed to reschedule the dinner with the Clearwaters, but his practices with the Guardian sword were getting more useful and less painful. 

November was a quiet month in Fudge's office; apart from a new Educational Decree and some minor inter-department squabbles, the papers that crossed Percy's desk were mostly routine correspondence and reports. Still, he always found enough work to justify staying late. 

Minister Fudge was surprised, then, when Percy began putting his desk into meticulous order right at the stroke of five o'clock one day in early December. 

"I say, lad! Busy evening?" 

"I'm having someone for dinner, sir," said Percy importantly. 

"Really!" The Minister looked more astonished than impressed. 

"Yes, sir." Percy straightened the papers on his desk so that they stood in three perfectly-aligned stacks. 

"I'm jiggered." Minister Fudge stroked his chin. "I believe that's the first time that you've ever had something to do after work." 

Percy looked up at him, nonplussed. "I -- I suppose so, sir." 

Minister Fudge smiled and began to put away his own work. "Then get you gone, Weasley! I won't hold you up with any more chatter. Get out! And have a good weekend!" 

"The same to you, Minister," said Percy soberly, and he gathered his cloak and left. 

The Minister's words stayed with him on the walk home. True, being the Scarlet Raven had really taken its toll on his free time -- not, he thought to himself, that he had much else to do with it. He sometimes wondered if Penelope had noticed how many evenings he was occupied. In fact -- he chuckled aloud -- he seemed to be spending more time with Perkins than with her! 

Percy thought about all the work he had put into catching Willy Widdershins. It seemed like a lot of effort just to keep someone from backing up toilets. But then, he thought, that's what they said about the cauldron bottom project, and look what came of it -- a nationwide standard for imports and domestic manufacturers that ensured uniformity, performance, and ultimately, safety. 

His work as the Raven had been worthwhile. Even Kingsley Shacklebolt had said as much. Although he missed his family sometimes, he knew that he wouldn't have been half as effective if he hadn't left. 

He found himself at the front stoop of Mother Swainbrooke's boarding house and realized that, lost in thoughts, he had taken the long way home. Night had already fallen, and the kitchen windows shone warm. He hurried up the steps and went inside. 

Penelope was already there, chatting gaily with Madam Swainbrooke at the kitchen table with a mug of tea in hand. Both women turned toward him as he came in. He didn't like the way they were both grinning. 

"You're talking about me, aren't you?" he said uneasily. 

"Yes," said Penelope. "Do you really have your sock drawer sorted by color and pattern?" 

Percy's face went beet-red, and both women giggled. "He does," Mother Swainbrooke confided. "And he insists that his skivvies --" 

"Ah -- what's for dinner?" Percy broke in loudly, cheeks aflame. "Long day you know, Minister Fudge had me rallying support for a potential new commerce decree ..." 

"Oh, _do_ hush," said Penelope kindly, placing a mug of tea in his hands. "We're having chicken. Did anything _interesting_ happen at work today?" 

"Now that you mention it," said Percy, brightening, "there _was_ a proposal to amend the Ban on Experimental Breeding ..." 

Dinner passed pleasantly. Afterward, Percy and Penelope pitched in to help Mother Swainbrooke with the dirty dishes. "It's a shame Johnny Peasegood's not here," Penelope teased. "We could use someone else to dry." 

Percy gave her a look. "I doubt he'd help even if he was here." 

There was a knock at the door. 

The three of them, wet to the elbows with dishwater, exchanged glances. "It's open," bellowed Mother Swainbrooke, wringing her arms and grabbing for a dishtowel. 

The front door creaked open, and soon a thin wizard stepped into the kitchen. He hovered in the doorway nervously. It looked to Penelope as if he felt he were trespassing. 

"Madam Emmuska Swainbrooke?" 

"Yes?" 

"I've been sent from St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries." 

"And to what do we owe the honor?" said Madam Swainbrooke sharply. 

"We've had an admittance," the wizard said awkwardly, "which we were able to trace to your home." 

"Do make yer point more clearly, sir, else I'll ask you to leave." Madam Swainbrooke had her hands on her hips. Her face held equal parts of annoyance and fear. 

"Does a John Delaware Peasegood live here?" 

Madam Swainbrooke's broad face went pale and she clutched the dishtowel tighter. "He does." 

"I've been sent to inform you that Mr. Peasegood was admitted to St. Mungo's earlier this evening. His wounds are serious, but he was able to give us this address. He will live," he added, fidgeting, "but he will be kept at the hospital for slightly more than one month." 

Mother Swainbrooke gasped. 

"A month?" said Penelope sharply. "What happened to him?" 

The wizard looked down at the floor. "He is currently being treated in the Crisis and Urgency Center, and will be moved to the Dai Lewellyn ward when his condition permits," he said. 

"I beg you, sir," snapped Percy, "to be more plain." 

The hospital wizard swallowed. "He's been bitten," he said reluctantly. 

"By _what?"_

"By a werewolf." 

The room fell silent. 

"I'm sorry." The wizard made an awkward bow and slipped out the door. 

Mother Swainbrooke had gone very white. She sat down heavily on the kitchen bench and crossed herself with a shaking hand. "Poor Mr. Peasegood," she said faintly. "And him so young at that." She heaved a bracing sigh. "Well," she said, looking up at Percy, "I'll have to be callin' a handyman. We're needin' bars on the windows, and a better lock on the door, I daresay." 

"Then you're letting him stay?" Penelope sounded both fearful and hopeful. 

"Of course, dear." Mother Swainbrooke managed a comforting smile. "Who else would be takin' him in?" 


	9. Free Willy

**Chapter Nine: Free Willy**

December was dreary. 

Percy had never exactly enjoyed Johnny's company, but for some reason he never felt like hurrying to dinner anymore, knowing that only he and Mother Swainbrooke would share the meal. More days than not he outstayed Minister Fudge. Two weeks after Johnny's accident, he stayed until six o'clock rearranging the entire contents of the Outdated and Overrated Policies cabinet. He was just locking up his desk for the evening when a memorandum zoomed into the office and hit him in the middle of the forehead. 

"Ow!" Rubbing his head, he picked up the memo and flicked it open. It contained two words: 

_See me._

Glancing about to be sure no one was near, Percy hurried into the hall and went downstairs to the second floor. 

He was just passing the Department for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts when a gnarled hand reached out and jerked him into the room. 

The door slammed behind them. Percy detached himself and stood up. 

"You know," said Percy tersely, wrenching his collar back into place, "that was entirely unnecessary. It would not be out of place for the Junior Assistant to the Minister to be inspecting another department --" 

"Read this," said Perkins, and stuffed a parchment into his hands. 

Date: 17-12-95   
Time: 04:51:06   
Location: Baker Street, London   
Artifact involved: Biting doorknob   
Results: Muggle buyer loses two fingers   
Action taken: Victim transported to St. Mungo's Hospital. Perpetrator sought, not found.   
Proposed further action: 

The last section was blank. 

"Biting doorknobs," said Percy in disgust. "That's -- that's _ghastly."_

"If you're the right sort of person, it's downright hilarious," said Perkins grimly. 

"Or the wrong sort." Percy handed it back. "Not to be rude, but -- why isn't your department handling this?" 

Perkins looked outraged. "We _are_ handling it, you brazen cockatrice," he growled, "but _you_ need to make sure it doesn't happen again." He put the paper on top of his desk. "We got this just at the end of the day, apparently an Obliviator was on vacation and happened to be in the right place at the right time. All we need to do is disenchant the doorknob." He gestured to his inbox, where a shiny brass bulb sat devouring his paperwork. "We can't do it until tomorrow. Your father took off right at the bell -- said he was busy this evening." Perkins raised his eyebrows. "It sounded like a Dumbledore sort of busy to me." 

Percy sighed and went to the window. "However gruesome it may be," he said, leaning against the window frame thoughtfully, "this person is just a prankster, and a prankster will stay around to watch their results." 

"Learnt that from your brothers, did you?" said Perkins, with a knowing grin. 

Percy ignored this. "My bet is that he or she was hiding somewhere watching as that Muggle was brought in to St. Mungo's. You say this happened just at five o'clock?" Perkins nodded. "Then he'll have gone to a local pub to have dinner and brag to his cronies. Give him a few hours, enough drinks, and he'll ..." 

"Go back and try it again," said Perkins. 

"Exactly." 

***

Midnight on Baker Street. 

A fine little neighborhood, Percy thought to himself, prowling the streets under the cover of a Disillusionment spell. Well-kept. The Burrow was leagues from the nearest house, but Percy thought he might enjoy having neighbors -- provided, of course, that the fences were good. 

A hoarse scream cut through the silence. 

_Bingo,_ thought Percy. He turned and dashed down the sidewalk, un-disillusioning himself as he went. He yanked a mirror from his pocket and flipped it open. "Perkins!" 

Perkins's face flickered in the mirror. "Ten-four, Raven." 

"I think we've hit something. Can you set up a Floo connection on the fly?" 

"I'll be in the Floo Network Authority in two minutes." 

"Roger that." Percy stuck the mirror in his pocket even as he ran. He skidded to a halt in front of a cheap two-level flat. A man huddled on the porch, clutching his wrist. Percy saw with a jolt of horror that it held three dripping stumps where the last three fingers should be. 

"Sir!" Percy bounded up onto the porch. "I'm here to help. Let's get inside." 

The man struggled to his feet and staggered into the house. He collapsed again when the door slammed shut. "I just -- just reached out --" 

"It's all right, we'll get to the bottom of it," said Percy, meaning to be soothing and sounding only distracted. He whipped out the mirror again. "Are you in?" 

"In and ready," the tinny voice replied. 

"We're in 1437 Baker Street. A man's wounded -- hurry!" 

"On it," said Perkins automatically, and the background filled with clangs and sparkles. 

"We'll have you out in a second," Percy said, crouching down in front of the man. "Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine. Now, where's your fireplace?" 

"Ain't got one," said the Muggle, not looking away from his mangled hand. 

"Haven't --" Percy stopped dead. "What _have_ you got?" 

"Central heating," the Muggle muttered. 

_"What?"_

"Raven! What's going on?" Perkins' voice crackled through the mirror. 

"He hasn't bloody got a fireplace!" 

There was silence. 

"What are we going to --" 

"Has he got an electric oven?" 

_"What's that?"_

"Yeah, I do," said the Muggle. "Interestin' cell phone you've got." 

"You are both speaking sheer jibberish," Percy snapped. 

"I thought you took five years of Muggle Studies!" barked Perkins through the mirror. "There's this big metal box where he cooks food. It's in the kitchen!" 

"All right, but what's a cell --" 

_"Just go find it!"_ There was the sound of scrambling around. "There, you're connected." 

"You'd better be right about this," Percy growled. He reached down and hoisted the bleeding man to his feet. "Come on, you, into the kitchen ... point out this eclectic oven thing -- well all right you don't have to _point,_ just sort of _gesture_ --" 

The man had a big metal box that was cold inside, and another one that was full of dirty dishes, but the third was nearly empty. "That's it," said the man thickly. He looked like he might come up faint. "Just twiddle the dial to turn it on." 

Percy twiddled all the dials he could see and soon a metal rod inside the oven began to glow. Supporting the Muggle under one arm, Percy grabbed a packet of Floo powder from his belt, tossed it into the oven, shouted, "St. Mungo's!" and dragged the both of them inside. 

The pair of them whirled through green mist and whizzed past fireplaces in the mad world of the Floo network. In moments, they were thrown out of the network and onto a smooth white floor. 

Percy landed upside-down with the Muggle on top of him. "Oof ..." He pried himself out and sprang to his feet. The room was white and ringed with fireplaces, and small tables clustered in one corner. A large plaque read "Crisis and Urgency Center." Two witches in lime-green robes, who had been drinking tea at one of the tables, were approaching quickly. 

Percy turned back the Muggle and helped hoist him to his feet. "This Muggle lost fingers to a biting doorknob," he barked at one of the witches, while the other supported the Muggle beneath the shoulder. More people, some in hospital uniforms and some in everyday robes, were starting to gather. He strode back to the fireplace and grabbed a pinch of Floo powder from a nearby urn. 

"Sir?" one of the witches called after him. "Who are you?" 

"The Scarlet Raven," he snapped, tossing the Floo powder into the fire. "1437 Baker Street!" 

He stepped into the fire and vanished. 

***

The electric oven spat him out onto a slightly bloody linoleum floor. 

Percy bounded to his feet. The criminal had to be nearby, he _had_ to -- 

A scraping sound wafted from the front door. 

_Aha._

Percy crept to the door and peeked out the window. A dark figure hunched over the biting knob, carefully unscrewing it from the door. He tapped the object with his wand and slid it into the pocket of his overcoat. 

Percy took a deep breath and gripped his wand. He threw open the door and stood face to face with the criminal. 

The short, stocky build and graying hair were painfully familiar. 

_"You!"_

Willy Widdershins stared back at him, small eyes round. "You!" 

Nothing happened for a split-second. Then Willy sprang upright, cried _"Catalepsia!"_ and took off down the street. 

Percy threw himself down onto the porch and felt a spell zing just over his head. It hit the lid of a dustbin and scattered. He leapt to his feet, took two steps to ready the Seven-League Boots, and bounded into the air. 

He came down with both feet between Willy's shoulder blades. The man went down with a grunt. As they hit the ground, Percy felt a hand close around his ankle and his leg was jerked out from under him. He thudded onto the pavement beside Willy. 

Willy's wand had skittered off to the sidewalk at the collision; the man was army-crawling toward it with amazing speed. Percy rolled over onto his stomach and thrust out his wand arm. _"Impedimentia!"_ Gold sparks settled across Willy's body -- his progress slowed to a creep as every movement became laborious and heavy. 

Percy's back and shoulders ached. He struggled to his feet. At the same time, the Impedimentia curse wore off and Willy scrambled upright, throwing himself at his wand. Percy barely had time to duck before Willy snatched up his wand and screamed, _"Expelliarmus!"_

The wand flew from Percy's hands; he grabbed after it and missed. He whirled around ferociously. This criminal was _not_ getting away again. He charged forward and rammed his head into Willy's stomach. 

Unfortunately, at that particular time Willy stood no more than two feet from a brick wall. They crashed, bounced back and stood reeling for a few moments; then Willy's world stopped spinning long enough for him to raise his wand. 

Percy, gripping his head between both hands, saw the wand come up through watery eyes. He swung a fist almost at random and made some kind of contact -- there was a dull "oof" and the clatter of wood on the pavement. He straightened, head throbbing, in time to catch Willy's fist in the eye. 

"Ugh!" Percy staggered backward. With his good eye he saw the next punch coming -- he fended off two or three blows before a good uppercut got him in the jaw. Wondering if the stars always whirled around like that, he hurled himself at Willy Widdershins. They went down in a heap of flying fists. 

It went fast from there. Willy had years of brawling experience, but Percy had for his part the vigorous energy of youth and sheer fury. Five furious minutes later, Willy Widdershins was having his face ground into the pavement while Percy sat atop him, tearing his cloak into long strips. 

"I am arresting you -- under the provisions for citizens' arrest --" He spoke in jerks as he tightened the strips of his cloak around Willy's arms, legs and mouth. "-- Ministerial Degree Eighty Two -- Part B -- section 3 -- paragraphs fifteen through eighteen --" He tightened the gag and Willy let out a whimper. "-- for introducing magical artifacts into the Muggle world, endangering the health and welfare of Muggles, risking the exposure of the wizarding world, and being a _complete_ pain in my rear end." He retrieved Willy's wand and stuffed it into his back pocket. "Now shut up and lay still." 

It took fifteen minutes to find his lost wand, during which time Willy complained gutturally and Percy couldn't care less. When he had finally found it behind a dustbin, he Banished Willy to Kingsley Shacklebolt's house and followed behind. There he tied Willy to the porch, snapped the criminal's wand in half, and wrote an irate letter which he tucked into Willy's collar so that it would itch until found. 

He Apparated to Perkins' house. After changing out of the Scarlet Raven outfit and giving Perkins a blow-by-blow account of the battle, he felt a little better. The vandal was caught, after all. Hopefully this time he would _stay_ caught. 

He took the underground home and walked the last few blocks to Madam Swainbrooke's. He paused outside the door. Though it was nearly two o'clock in the morning, the light was on. 

He turned the knob and went inside. 

Mother Swainbrooke sat at the kitchen table, her blubbery face taut and worried. She burst out at the sight of him: "Oh Mr. Weasley! Where've ye been? Thank goodness ye've returned --" 

"I'm all right," Percy assured her, startled to see her still awake. "I haven't been bit by a werewolf or anything." 

"Sit down, dear," said Mother Swainbrooke. 

She looked upset. Percy slowly took a seat. 

"I'm so sorry, dear. Your father. He's been ..." She swallowed. "Attacked." 

The blood seemed to freeze in Percy's veins. He felt suddenly dizzy. "He ... what?" 

"Your brother sent word through the Floo," Mother Swainbrooke looked like she might start crying. "He was at work, and a great animal --" 

_"How is he?"_

"Your brother said he was at St. Mungo's and they're doing everything they can for 'im." 

He jumped to his feet. "I'll --" 

He faltered. He had just been to St. Mungo's with an injured Muggle. A dozen people had caught sight of him. Would they recognize him without the mask? 

"I'll ..." 

Could he run the risk? 

"I'll ... be in my room." 

Mother Swainbrooke's mouth opened slightly. "Mr. Weasley! Will ye not go to him?" 

"No." He squared his shoulders and slid easily into the haughty mask that he had spent his life perfecting. "I will not. Good night, Madam." 

He went upstairs and prepared for bed exactly according to routine. Then he got in bed and lay wide awake, his heart cold with fear, until morning. 

***

Word came at breakfast. 

"He'll live," said Charlie's head through the fireplace. "Percy, you will go see him, won't you? Bill didn't want me contacting you -- said that if you cared, you'd come see for yourself --" 

"Charlie, my job is not as flexible as Bill's," Percy snapped. He left for work without eating. 

He was perfectly aware of the stares and murmurs that he passed through as he stalked through the Ministry to his office. No one spoke to him, for which he was both grateful and furious, until he let himself into the office and started shuffling through papers without seeing them. 

Minister Fudge came in a few minutes later. He looked startled to see his assistant. 

"What's top priority today, Minister?" Percy said crisply, before he could get a word out. "Shall I focus on those regulations of full-moon herb harvestation or finish the second draft of your W.W.N. Ministry Hour fundraising form?" 

"Well --" The Minister was nonplussed. "The fundraising, I suppose. Weasley, your father --" 

"I have heard," said Percy shortly, not looking up from his papers, "and am told that he will live. Would you like me to ask the Broom Regulatory Control how their safety report on the Twigger 90 is coming?" 

"Er -- yes, thank you." Shaking his head, Minister Fudge hung his hat and cloak inside the door. He took a look at Percy and narrowed his eyes. "Where'd you get that shiner, my boy?" 

He'd forgotten completely about his fight with Willy Widdershins. "Walked into a door," Percy muttered. 

"If any other nineteen-year-old boy on Earth told me that," the Minister said, almost reflectively, "I'd laugh in his face." 

"Thank you, sir," said Percy. 


	10. A Merry Little Christmas

**Chapter Ten: A Merry Little Christmas**

Percy awoke on Christmas morning feeling very fine indeed. 

The biting-doorknobs charges against Willy Widdershins had stuck -- the trial had been held just two days before, and Percy ranked it as one of the most delightful experiences of his life -- so Willy wasn't going to be doing much Muggle-baiting from the third floor of Azkaban. The regular letter from Charlie indicated that their father would be out of St. Mungo's within the week. The day before, the annual "P" sweater had arrived from his mother ... he'd politely declined, of course, but it was cheering to know that he was still being thought of at home. 

Percy strode down the stairs. Mother Swainbrooke stood in the kitchen, packing an enormous basket with fruits, sweets and pastries. He dropped a quick kiss on her cheek before settling down to enjoy the impressive Christmas breakfast that she had laid out on the table. 

Mother Swainbrooke nestled a final jar of toasted nuts into the basket and heaved it onto her shoulder. "Good mornin', Mr. Weasley," she said fondly. "Sure you won't be coming to see Mr. Peasegood with me?" 

"I'm sorry, no, but wish him well for me." There was no way he could risk running into the Muggle he'd brought in, or for that matter, his family. 

Mother Swainbrooke sighed. "Tisn't for me to judge," she said, in a _laissez-faire_ way that indicated she was going to judge anyway, "but it seems you could do with a bit more compassion, Mr. Weasley." 

Percy's mouth hung open. 

"Happy Christmas," she said, and swept out the door. 

He finished breakfast a little bit offended. 

"More compassion," he huffed, plopping onto the couch in front of the fire. "Risking my bloody neck every other night for people I don't know --" He picked up an old Witch Weekly, flipped through it, and tossed it back down in disgust. "Spent half my life running after Fred and George, trying to keep them from _killing_ anyone ..." He spotted his owl on a perch by the front door. "Hermes! Am I _compassionate?"_

Hermes hooted irritably and hid his head. 

"Well, you're no Saint Mungo yourself," Percy snapped, and buried himself in yesterday's Daily Prophet. 

***

Mother Swainbrooke returned around eleven, with groceries, local gossip, and tidings of Johnny's health. 

"The poor lamb's near healed," she reported, "though he's terrible scarred. The Healers wish to keep 'im over the full moon." 

"And a good thing," Percy said. It was one thing to live next door to a carouser, quite another to live with a ravening beast. 

Mother Swainbrooke pursed her lips. "They've given me a potion to brew, what'll keep him his mind whilst he's in the wolfskin," she told Percy, digging into her basket and handing him a scroll. "Sure an' I could use some help with this. It'll keep him harmless durin' the difficult days." 

Percy looked over the recipe and whistled. "Complicated." 

The doorbell rang. 

"I've got it." Percy handed back the scroll and went to the door. 

It was Penelope. 

The snow that alighted on her golden hair made a fragile halo. Her cheeks were pink with frost. 

"Come in!" said Percy eagerly. "You look half frozen -- take off that cloak, Mother Swainbrooke will dry it out for you --" 

The landlady had appeared from nowhere and was looking Penelope up and down approvingly. "Oh yes, come in lass," she crooned. "I'll have that dry for you in just a moment." She whisked the cloak from Penelope's shoulders with the deftness of a magician and spirited it away. 

The grin faded from Percy's face. "Penny," he said, his voice croaking oddly, "what are you wearing?" 

Over her blue jeans, Penelope wore a baggy knit sweater with a large P sewn on the front. 

"Do you like it?" she said, cold as the winter wind. "Your mother gave it to me." 

Percy's mouth hung open. 

"I think I'd like to speak with you alone," said Penelope conversationally. 

Percy nodded dumbly and led her up to his bedroom. 

When they were inside, Penelope closed the door behind her. Then she turned to Percy. "I've heard from your mother again." 

Percy was pale. "Have you." 

"Oh yes. She's been telling me things. Interesting things." She paced around to his other side and Percy rotated to follow her. "For instance, she told me that your father was injured. Gravely, in fact. And that he could have died." 

Chills went up Percy's spine just to hear it again. "That's true," he said uncertainly. 

"Hmm." Penelope paced to the other side. "You didn't mention it to me. I would have liked to go see him with you. Of course that would have been difficult, seeing as she also told me that you never went to see him in hospital." 

"That's ... true too," said Percy. He didn't like the direction this conversation was taking. 

Penelope's shoulders seemed to sag. "I wasn't sure it was," she said quietly. "That's why I came to see." She took a deep breath. "Percy Weasley, you are an _unbelievable prat._" 

Percy was stunned. "What?" 

"You abandon your whole family over some stupid row about your career. When your mother came to see your flat you slammed the door on her -- oh yes, she told me about that too, funny you never told me she'd been to see you -- you sent some horrible letter to Ron telling him to dump his best friend --" 

"That letter was --" Percy stammered. 

"It's not just them," Penelope went on viciously. "You wouldn't bring me to that dinner party, you won't take time to see my parents, we had to sneak around for a whole year because you thought dating me would compromise your position as prefect, you wouldn't dance with me at the Yule Ball _because you were there on government business_ --" She was now shoving him forcibly with every word. "All right, you can be horrible toward me -- I don't care -- but your own family, Percy! Your own _father!"_ She punched him feebly in the middle of the chest, then sank down onto a large stack of books. "You never cared about anyone but yourself." 

"Penny --" There was something desperate in the way he said her name. Quite unselfconsciously he went to his knees beside her. "Penny, you know that's not true --" 

"It's very true, Percy." Her voice was very quiet now. "Everyone else has been able to see it. I can't believe it took me so long." 

"No --" He grasped for her hand but she pulled it out of his reach. "Penny, I care about you more than -- I ever thought -- _Please,_ Penny, I gave up my family, you're all I have left --" 

"You _gave them up?"_ She met his eyes with hurt fury. "You _walked away,_ Percy. You left them behind. And now when they need you most of all --" She broke off, took a deep breath, and then stood up. Percy scrambled to his feet. 

"I hate what you've done to them, Percy," she said calmly, not meeting his eyes. "And I'm terrified that you may do it to me. I'm afraid I can't live with that." She swallowed hard. "Goodbye." 

Percy's face went still and pale. Then he said, very weakly: "Goodbye?" 

Penelope turned away wordlessly and walked out the door. 

Her feet made little sound on the staircase. 

The door closed quietly. 

Percy sank into his chair and put his hands over his face. 

***

Young men of Johnny Peasegood's constitution tend to stay up late; middle-aged men go to bed early. Perkins was past both stages of life and existed quite happily on five hours of sleep per night. Things were quiet in the wee hours; he liked feeling alone and comfortable, liked knowing that this time was lost on all but a few. A cup of tea around one o'clock usually hit the spot. He was in the middle of his preparations when a slow, weary knocking sounded from his door. 

Perkins put down the kettle and shuffled to the door. 

Silhouetted against the falling snow stood Percy Weasley, looking bent and bedraggled. A faded Gryffindor scarf was thrown carelessly over one shoulder; his glasses were steamed and drooping on the end of his nose. His hair was damp with melting snow. 

"Weasley! What happened, was there trouble? Are you being followed? Come in, come in, lad." 

"It's Penelope," said Percy dully as the old man gripped his arm and propelled him indoors. 

Shutting the door after a suspicious look around the deserted street, Perkins turned and surveyed his young friend. 

"Now, you tell me all about it, and I'll put on some tea." 

He hurried into the kitchen and reached for the teapot. Then he looked back over his shoulder. Percy stood in the doorway, listlessly watching the snow puddle around his boots. Perkins changed his mind and got out his bottle of firewhiskey. 

Percy staggered across the kitchen and sank into a chair, oblivious. Melting snow pooled on his shoulders and the floor. Perkins poured half a glass, eyed it up, and filled it to the top before shoving it into Percy's limp hand. 

The redhead glanced down at the drink without interest. "I think I've lost her, Perkins," he said hollowly. He drained his glass without noticing the taste. "Now all I've got is you. You and Johnny Peasegood ..." He laughed mirthlessly. 

"Did she say why, now?" Perkins asked soothingly. 

Percy bent his head and muttered something about a sweater. 

"Isn't that always the way with women," said Perkins sympathetically, without the foggiest idea what a sweater had to do with anything. He had encountered enough similar instances in eighty years of bachelorhood to have his course charted regardless of the situation. He refilled Percy's glass. 

"I don't know what I've done," said Percy, leaning his head so far back that it rested on the back of his chair. "I don't know what she wants. I have a good job --" 

"Two of 'em," said Perkins cheerfully. 

"I'm responsible and mature, I can _support_ her, I _appreciate_ her --" Percy swallowed the second dose, coughed, looked down at the empty glass with swimming eyes, and let it fall to the floor. Perkins, without the blink of an eye, Summoned it back to the table and filled it again. 

"I'm dignified," Percy went on bleakly. "I'm ... motivated ..." He reached for the glass, hesitated, and picked up the half-empty bottle by its neck. "I ..." He stood up swaying, gripping the bottle with white knuckles. "I ... miss her already." 

He stumbled into the living room. 

Perkins looked across the table at the full tumbler, shrugged, and drained it. 


	11. A Penniless Existence

**Chapter Eleven: A Penniless Existence**

The morning sun had never been so bright. Percy Weasley squinted into wakefulness and wondered how something as benign as a sunbeam could split his skull clean in half. He groaned and sat up on Perkins' couch, clutching his head between his hands -- one of which, it transpired, was holding an empty bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey. He glanced down at it blearily. 

Perkins shuffled in, bearing a tea tray with toast and a pot of coffee. At a nod of his head, a small table sprung from the floor by the sofa; he put down the tray and set to work filling a mug. 

Percy gestured painfully with the empty bottle. "Did I finish this myself?" 

"And another like it," said Perkins briskly, thrusting a mug of coffee into his friend's unoccupied hand. "Drink up and get sober. You've had your evening. Tonight, the Raven needs to fly." 

Grimacing, Percy forced the scalding-hot coffee down his throat. "I think," he said, still fighting the thunderclouds in his brain, "that the Raven needs to go on holiday." 

"Lord Voldemort's not on holiday, and neither are you," said Perkins. 

Percy sighed. 

There was a knock at the door. 

"Ah." Perkins rubbed his hands together satisfactorily. "That'll be Arabella with lunch. You're welcome to stay of course, provided you clean yourself up proper. No, don't try to Apparate, you'll splinch yourself," he said sharply, as Percy struggled to pull out his wand. "Just splash some water on your face, you know where the washroom is." He hoisted Percy up by the armpit and shoved him in the right direction, just in case. Then he went to the door to let in Mrs. Figg. 

Percy found it hard to enjoy lunch. 

In fact, he admitted to himself later, he found it difficult to enjoy anything in the following week. With Johnny in hospital, Penelope gone and his family estranged, he was surprised to find himself deeply lonely. 

He tried going in to work, but nearly everyone was on holiday -- and with Minister Fudge in Peru, there just wasn't much to do. He spent three days reading the bylaws of the International Confederation of Wizards, then read them in French just for practice. He straightened all of Fudges' framed photographs. One afternoon he even wandered down to the Auror Headquarters to look at the map of Sirius Black sightings. 

In the evenings he read, practiced with the Guardian sword until Perkins kicked him out, or wandered the dark streets of London. Sometimes he would come across an amusement, or something interesting -- usually small -- and he would think to himself, _I have to show Penny._ Then he would remember. He usually went back home after that. 

On the fourth of January he got another letter from Charlie. By then he was feeling so bored and so abandoned that he practically tore it out of Errol's feeble talons, causing the owl to faint dead away. To his disappointment, the letter was short. 

    _Percy-   
    Dad's out of hospital. He'll be fine. You really ought to write to Mum soon.   
                                            -Charlie
_

He thought over the words as he was reviving Errol with splashes of cold water. Maybe he should write to his mother. Tell her how good Penelope looked in that sweater ... 

He shook away the thought. It was ridiculous. How could he explain that he had divorced himself of his family so that no one suspected him of being involved in Dumbledore's crowd? How could he explain that, the day she had come to Mother Swainbrooke's home and begged to see him, he had slammed his bedroom door on her because he had Azkaban Arnie tied to his desk chair? And of course he couldn't've met her downstairs; you couldn't leave Arnie unattended for two seconds ... 

Errol hooted weakly and opened one eye. Percy sighed in relief. Every time you sent Errol on a delivery you wondered if it was going to be his last. If it hadn't been for Hermes, he'd never have been able to keep up with Penny over the summers so well ... 

Another uncomfortable thought. Percy mixed some milk and raw hamburger and set it in front of Errol, who swayed feebly and finally tipped forward into the mess. Sighing, Percy picked the owl up. Supporting Errol with one hand, he fed him bite by bite until the owl had regained most of his usual strength, which while slight was enough to keep him alive. Errol nuzzled the inside of Percy's palm in thanks, then hooted dolefully and flew back out the window. 

Percy sighed. It had been nice while it lasted. 

The door flew open. 

"Lend a hand, Mr. Weasley, and greet a friend," Mother Swainbrooke's voice sang out, "Mr. Peasegood's home from hospital!" 

"Johnny!" Percy jumped up and nearly ran to the door. 

Mother Swainbrooke, arms full of boxes and parcels, was nevertheless helping Johnny struggle out of his cloak. The young man caught sight of Percy, and for a moment his eyes flickered warily; but when Percy didn't show any signs of fear or distrust, his face lit up with the old carefree smile. 

"Percy! How've you been?" 

His face looked like it had been pawed by a lion; long gouges ran down one cheek and grazed his neck. His hands and wrists bore testament to the scrapes along his arm. His usually ruddy complexion was thinner and paler, the result of a month spent abed. 

"You look --" Percy hesitated. "Pretty terrible." 

"Yeah, I feel it too," Johnny admitted breezily. 

Mother Swainbrooke had finally managed to extract him from his cloak and was hanging it on the wall one-handed. She turned to Percy and somehow thrust a basket of laundry into his arms. "Do be a help, Mr. Weasley, and carry Mr. Peasegood's washings," she cajoled. "Him being so weak and all from his ordeal." 

Percy cast an irritated glance at Johnny, who shrugged innocently. Rolling his eyes, he started upstairs, with Johnny whistling behind him. 

He dropped the basket onto the trunk at the end of Johnny's bed and started folding the clean laundry. He glanced back over his shoulder. 

Johnny stood in the doorway, looking over his room as if he'd never seen it. Percy remembered that he'd been gone for five weeks -- a huge chunk of time to lose all at once. With something like a sigh, Johnny put his hands in his pockets and came inside. He went to the dresser and checked his facial wounds in the mirror, grimacing, and started poking through his things as if to be sure it was all still there. 

"You didn't come to see how I was," came Johnny's voice, petulant. 

"I was occupied," said Percy shortly. 

There was a moment of silence while Percy folded shirts and Johnny fiddled with some things on the top of his dresser. Then: 

"You know, your old man was in the cot across from me. Snake bite." 

Percy didn't reply. 

"Didn't come to see _him_ either, did you." 

More silence. Percy became very immersed in the business of matching Johnny's laundered socks. 

Johnny crossed the room and sat down on his bed, scratching absently at the healing wounds on his arm. "What's wrong with him, your father? I mean, you're not speaking to him, right? How come?" 

Percy tensed. This was the last thing he wanted to discuss and the last person he wanted to discuss it with. "He's not well thought of," he said finally. "He's a danger to my career." 

Johnny whistled. Then he lay back on his bed and let out a feeble sort of laugh. 

"_My_ dad's well thought of," he said. "He could land me a plush job anywhere in creation. And I don't want anything to do with _him,_ either." He laced his fingers behind his head and looked over at Percy. "Funny." 

Percy felt the ends of his ears grow warm. "I don't think I'd prefer to continue this conversation." He dropped the rest of Johnny's laundry and started for the door. 

Johnny's plaintive voice stopped him. 

"It's the first thing, you know. The only thing ..." 

Percy turned around. Johnny was now propped on his elbows, gazing listlessly down at the sheets. 

"The only thing I've ever gotten into, that I couldn't get out of. Even dad couldn't get me out of it." 

Every shred of light-hearted American optimism was gone. The man it left behind was still handsome, still wealthy, but staring into a future as empty as a black hole. Ruined in one night. Scars that would heal, and scars that wouldn't ... 

"It doesn't have to be so bad," Percy said, wishing he didn't sound so lame. "I knew a fellow once -- professor actually -- he kept quite a successful job, no one even guessed so long as he took his potion regularly. _I_ won't tell, just be cautious and there's no reason you can't live -- well, a normal life." 

Johnny looked at him. Then he got up and came to the door. 

"You know," he said, "that's almost exactly what your father told me." 

He closed the door. 

Percy didn't know why, but the words stayed with him far into the night. 

***

He woke up to violent shaking. 

Perkins had him by both shoulders, looming over his bed in the moonlight. He spoke as soon as Percy opened his eyes. 

"We're needed. I have your things." 

Percy staggered out of bed, still in his pajamas, and went straight into the fireplace. 

The Floo network is not a pleasant thing to wake up to. By the time it spit him out on Perkins' living room floor his groggy mind was whirling. His equipment was laid out on the sofa. He stumbled to it and had one boot on before Perkins strode out of the fireplace and thrust a clean set of clothes at him. "Get dressed, boy," he barked. "And drink this." 

Two minutes and half a pot of coffee later he was fully suited up and almost entirely alert. Perkins filled him in as he was pulling on the Seven-League Boots. 

"Strange things on Azkaban. Spurts of wandless magic, some Banishments to the island. I dunno what it is, but it's bad." 

"How am I going get there?" Percy said, adjusting his mask. "It's miles out to sea, and Apparation-proof." 

"First of all," Perkins growled, "_we're_ going, not _you._ Second, we travel the old-fashioned way." 

He pulled two broomsticks from the closet. 

Percy stared at them. "Perkins, you know I can't fly!" 

"We can Apparate as far as Hengist Harbor," said Perkins stubbornly, "but then it's fly or swim, sprout, and I'd love to see you floundering about in the cold north seas." 

"We can conjure a boat," Percy suggested, dubiously accepting the broomstick that Perkins handed him. He looked the broom over. "Good heavens. The new Firebolt?" 

"I like to keep up on the latest models," said Perkins proudly. 

Percy's mind whizzed backwards to his first-year flying lessons. They had been humiliating. There was no possible way to maintain one's dignity on a bucking broomstick -- and worse, Charlie was already in fourth year and well on his way to becoming the Quidditch prodigy that he ended up. Percy could still envision the look on Madam Hooch's face when she realized that he would not be following in his brother's footsteps. 

"I can't do it," said Percy. 

Perkins looked him over with a mix of exasperation and fury. "You're the Scarlet Raven, aren't you?" he roared. "Well, ravens _fly!"_

"That's what the boots are for," Percy said lamely, but it was too late. Perkins had Apparated to the seaside. With a sigh of resignation, Percy gripped his broomstick and followed. 


	12. Jailhouse Rock

**Chapter Twelve: Jailhouse Rock**

The harbor at Hengist was still and cold. Here and there, ice clung to posts and dripped from rooftops. The January winds were frigid here, salty-scented and wet from the spray of the ocean. 

Percy and Perkins met up on an empty wooden pier that projected bleakly into the dark waters. With a glance and a nod, they each mounted their brooms and soared into the nighttime sky. 

They went slowly at first, Percy struggling to get the feel of his broomstick. The Firebolt was excellent, no doubt about it -- but there was a certain power in the wood beneath his hands that he was afraid to try to control. When the wind hit his side he had to lay low and grip tightly to avoid teetering over the chilly waters. 

A low cloud cover reflected the light from a lopsided moon. Percy didn't trust himself to look down at the churning unfriendly waves, but they were joined in flight by a few cormorants, then a flock of bats, and finally -- for one brief minute -- a glorious, enormous albatross, glinting white against the black sky. 

Percy watched the albatross wheel off into the distance. He envied its fearless flight. There was a deep beauty in its size, its confidence, the smooth sweep of the vast white wingspan and the chilling cry that echoed hauntingly ... 

"We're there," called Perkins. 

Even if Percy had ever seen a photograph of the fortress, it couldn't prepare him for the sight of it. Solid stone walls towered four stories high in the center of a barren island barely larger than the prison itself. There were windows, but they were barred and black ... just one door, wide enough for three to walk abreast. 

They flew closer, carefully now that the destination was in sight. Slowly it became clear that the outcropping was not as barren as it first seemed. Something more than rocky shores lined the edge of Azkaban island. 

Boats. 

Disapparation was impossible. Portkeys were illegal. Banishment spells were blocked. But the Ministry had failed to account for a simple truth: Once you had a boat on Azkaban, there was nothing to prevent it from leaving, regardless of passengers. 

Perkins swore softly, the words swept away in the winds. "What fools! Why didn't anyone think ..." 

"Hush!" They slowed and hovered a few hundred yards from the shore. "Something's moving." 

The lone door in the center of the fortress creaked open. 

Onto the empty sands staggered a man, or what had once been one -- his arms and legs were gaunt, his face drawn. He fell to his knees. Raising a head, he caught sight of the boats and began crawling towards them, fighting just to keep moving. Twice he collapsed and paused for long moments before moving on. He reached the first boat and threw himself over the stern, half in and half out, too spent to go on. 

Another prisoner emerged -- no, two, a man and a woman, leaning on one another for support. They drank in the cool air with closed eyes and slowly began to walk toward the boats. 

Then the beach was filled with people -- stumbling, crawling, grasping their faces or reaching toward the night sky -- half a dozen, even more. Slowly, pilgrim zombies, they made their way to the waiting promise of freedom. 

Someone else emerged. 

As the first dementor swept from the fortress, long cloak trailing, the prisoners grew still. A second, then a third, then a score of them oozed from the door and began to surround the fortress like eerie soldiers, long-dead watchmen. They barely looked at the dozen or so empty figures huddled on the sand and in the boats. 

"Sentinels," said Percy. "How's your Patronus?" 

"Better than yours," said Perkins. The two brooms were close together now, invisible at that distance to both human sight and the dementors' emotional sensors. "Let's not test it. Once the boats are adrift they're ours -- we can turn 'em around, freeze 'em or take 'em straight in to the Ministry -- what are you doing?" 

"Stopping a breakout!" Percy called over his shoulder. He shot toward the fortress. 

Too late, Perkins thrust out a hand. _"Not so close!"_

It was like running into an emotional brick wall. The full force of the dementors' power washed over him even as he hovered forty feet away. Icy emptiness, all the fear and sorrow in the world, came rushing around him. He wobbled on the broomstick, overcome. 

Then he lost his grip. 

Grasping in the air, finding no purchase, he teetered and fell through night and air. The stones rushed to meet him. He landed on his back -- the wind knocked out of him -- and his head fell back onto a jut of stone. 

Darkness closed over his sight. He did not see the dementors that gathered around him like vultures. 

And he dreamed. 

_Ginny was gone. Her skeleton would lie in the Chamber forever ... the bright life snuffed, the belle of the household silenced ... He was writing a letter to his parents that he should never have had to write, forcing himself to put down the words, making them as quick and brusque as possible so he wouldn't break down sobbing in the common room ... then locking himself up in the bedroom, seeking solace in loneliness and finding only grief ... _

Your father, dear. He's been ... attacked ... 

It's been over an hour and he's still under that lake. What's happening? Can't see a thing -- it's been too long, how can he still be all right? -- He could drown and we'd never know 'til it was too late ... it might be too late already ... 

Penelope lay still and cold as wax. Sleeping Beauty ... but an empty kiss, stolen in the dark as Madam Pomfrey looked away, couldn't bring her back to life ... 

Give it back, Marcus! All right, Weasel ... two days of pain, six months of broken glasses and five years of humiliation ... 

I think I can be trusted to know -- I've worked for Mr. Crouch a full -- yes, I think six months is long enough to be able to -- I don't know where he is, will you stop asking me that! 

You never cared about anyone but yourself. Everyone else has been able to see it ... I can't live with that ... Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye ... 

Through his drowning misery Percy was conscious of a floating sensation -- weightlessness, to contrast the weight on his heart. _I'm dying,_ he thought with some vague, weary relief. _I've died_ ... 

Then he knew absolutely nothing at all. 

***

Percy awoke with a jolt. 

At first there was nothing but skull-splitting pain. Then that subsided, and he noticed other things -- deep cold, penetrating damp. He realized that he was lying flat on his back, tried to rectify the situation, and quit when dizzily dancing stars skipped into his vision. He groaned. 

"There you are." 

Percy squinted. Everything was black. And very loud, he noticed with a wince -- a continual sort of roaring hung in the background, like the buzzing of enormous bees, or ... 

He rolled his head to one side and opened his eyes. 

Or waves on the shore. 

That was inaccurate; the waves weren't licking a golden sandy shore, they were crashing on a thick wall of rocks, and every crest sprinkled him with droplets of salt water. He forced himself to sit upright. There was rock all around him, just a tiny outcropping surrounded by thunderous, churning, and limitless ocean. Nearby, Perkins sat restlessly on a flat stone. They were utterly alone. 

"What ...?" 

"Ten of 'em made it off the island, and you nearly got the last kiss of your life," said Perkins bitterly. 

"How ...?" 

"I dragged you on my broom and flew us here." 

Percy clutched the side of his head and hoped that his eyeball wouldn't go through with its urge to explode. "Where ...?" 

"A rock in the middle of the ocean, where does it look like?!?" 

"No --" Percy steadied himself. "I meant ... where ... are the escapees?" 

Perkins snorted and raised his hands in the air. "Who knows." 

The full realization of what had passed sank into Percy's mind. He groaned again, this time more of mental anguish than physical pain. They had set off to do a great thing and completely, splendidly failed. 

"I should've had more sense," Perkins said in disgust, face in his hands. "If there was ever a time to tell the Order, this was it. There's enough of them, they could've done _something_ --" He slammed his hand onto the rock, yelped, and wrung it out in pain. 

"It's not your fault," Percy said, leaning morosely against an outcropping. "You weren't the one out there falling off your broom." 

"Well, _that's_ true," said Perkins. 

"You know, maybe you _should_ have told the Order," said Percy irritably. He sighed. "Ten dangerous men on the loose ..." 

"Nine," said Perkins glumly. "One's a woman." 

"I'll bet she's the most dangerous," said Percy, thinking of Penelope. "The point is, though, Perkins, every one of them's capable of murder -- and worse." He looked bleakly across the vast and uncaring sea. "We've really got our work cut out for us now." 

Far above, an albatross wheeled and cried. 


	13. An American Werewolf in London

**Chapter Thirteen: An American Werewolf in London**

Percy was wrong about the effect that the Azkaban breakout would have on local crime. With the Death Eaters on the loose, incidences of Muggle-baiting actually went down. 

Perkins wasn't surprised. "They've got bigger fish to fry," he growled, darning his socks while Percy battled the Guardian sword. "Now that Voldemort's got his minions back he won't bide his time much longer. You mark my words." 

Percy swung at the Guardian, missed, and buried his sword in an end table. 

"I said mark my _words,_ not my furniture!" 

Johnny underwent his second-ever transformation late in the month of January. He locked himself in his room the day before (after moving most of his things to Percy's room, which took up nearly all the available floor space) and didn't come out until the day after. In the meantime, Mother Swainbrooke kept him fed with raw steak and doses of his potion slid in through the newly-installed flap in the door. He came out looking exhausted but unharmed, and began immediately laying plans for Valentine's Day. The one thing they never discussed was how he had come to get bitten in the first place. All they ever got out of him was a muttered, "She could've warned me." 

February slid by. In the office, the Aurors had their hands full with Death Eater sightings -- mostly false -- and the occasional tip-off that anyone looking for Sirius Black should inquire after Stubby Boardman. Percy worked feverishly in Fudge's office, and when things got slow he poked around the Department of International Magical Cooperation to see how Mr. Crouch's replacement was doing. The new fellow, he noted disdainfully, only spoke a hundred languages and never shined his shoes. 

The weather was gruesome and gray. Percy was lonely, but he didn't know it -- in the ugly doldrums of mid-winter, he thought he was just bored. 

***

Stamping. 

Shelving. 

Checking out and checking in. 

No, Penelope Clearwater thought with a sigh, things certainly didn't change much in the Library of Gramarye. 

She stamped a book by rote, stuck it on a library cart with the others, and took up another. Day after day of brainless, endless work. And the evenings ... 

She stamped the book harder than she had intended. 

... the evenings were long and empty. 

Over the past few years she'd forgotten what it was like to be without someone special. These days, she spent most of her time alone. Breakfast with the parents ... lunch with a coworker, every once in a while ... dinner at home, or with one of the few Ravenclaws she'd been able to keep in touch with. Without Percy there just wasn't much to do. 

She worried even more about him than she did herself. Now there wasn't much to distract him from work, and he'd lost an incentive to make amends with his family. What could he possibly be doing with his time? 

"You're thinkin' about 'im." 

Penelope jerked out of her thoughts. "No, I'm not." She quickly put the book on the cart. 

"Poppycock," said Madame Graybill. "You knew who I was talkin' about, dincha? You think about him all the time. You were doin' it right now. I saw it in your eyes." 

"I did not, do not and was not." She picked up another book, stamped it forcefully on the inside cover, and threw it onto the cart. 

"Of course you don't," said the old librarian, clearly not believing a word of it. She took the cart by the handle and wheeled it into the aisle. "Come on, kiddo, help me shelve this mess." 

They worked together, trolling up and down the aisles to slide books, scrolls and manuscripts into their proper places. No more than five minutes into the task, they were approached by a neatly-dressed, gray-haired gentleman. 

"Pardon me," he said, bowing politely to make up for the interruption, "but is this month's copy of the Quibbler available?" 

Penelope raised her eyebrows unintentionally. He didn't look like the type that usually kept up with a tabloid like the Quibbler. Still, that seemed to have been the trend since the end of February. It was very odd ... 

"Nope," said Madam Graybill apologetically. "Someone's beat you to it. There's a wait list at the desk you can sign." 

"Thank you." The man, looking slightly disappointed, bowed again and left. 

Penelope took up two dusty collections of Shakespeare and weighed them contemplatively in her hands before she shelved them. "Why's the Quibbler so popular this month?" 

The old librarian shrugged her wasted shoulders. "Got me, kiddo. Gimme that Euclid scroll." 

Penelope handed over the scroll and Madam Graybill deposited it carefully into its slot. 

"It's got a wait list dozens long," Penelope went on thoughtfully, filling in the holes in the Muggle Fiction section. "I mean, it's just a silly tabloid. What's so interesting all of a sudden?" 

Madam Graybill turned to Penelope with her hands on her skinny hips. "Now look, kiddo," she said, "you work in a gol-durned library. Do yer research. Next time the issue comes back --" she shrugged again "-- just keep it over a day 'fore you let the next fella know it's here." 

She picked up a book, glanced it over, and snorted. 

"A whole library of knowledge," she said, waving the book in the air, "and someone's reading _Prefects Who Gained Power_." 

Penelope laughed bleakly and didn't mention that she'd been the one who checked it out. 

As it turned out, the Quibbler was returned the very next day by a cheerful fellow named Dave Gudgeon who had a long scar across one eye; feeling guilty, Penelope slipped it into her handbag before anyone had a chance to see that it was back. At lunch she walked down the snowy street to a small delicatessen. After ordering a ham on rye, she settled back and opened the newspaper. 

The glaring headline put all her questions to rest. 

**_HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST:   
THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED   
AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN_**

Completely forgetting her sandwich, Penelope leaned in and began to read. 

Twenty minutes later, she put down the paper. 

Her stomach felt curiously hollow, even though she'd eventually eaten the ham on rye. She had never heard Potter's story about what happened to Cedric. It was as if she was hearing about his death for a second time -- she remembered the hush of the audience as he was carried from the maze, the hollow look in the eyes of his parents as they passed in the hallway. She remembered ushering the Ravenclaws to the dormitories and then telling them that Cedric had been confirmed dead -- her last real act as prefect. She remembered holding Cho Chang until the younger girl ran out of tears. 

Almost a year ago, and so painfully recent. 

Now Potter was going public with his side of the story. The tale of Cedric's death had never even made it into the Daily Prophet. Could The Boy Who Lived be believed? 

She thought he could. 

She flipped through the paper, but none of the other articles dealt with Harry Potter, Death Eaters, or anything marginally relevant. She browsed the adverts -- Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Mess Remover, Busty Betsy's Breast Enhancement Charms, Gladrags' new fall line -- without interest. 

A marquee on the second-to-last page caught her eye. 

**MASKED HERO SAVES MUGGLES!   
IDENTITY UNKNOWN!**

Someone is out to attack Muggles -- and someone is out to stop them!   
The Quibbler has it exclusively from a Muggle smuggled into St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries that he was rescued and brought in by a **masked hero in a scarlet cloak!** The eyewitness states: 

_"I just opened the door and something bit down on me fingers -- lost three -- when this chap in red comes swooping down, grabs me and chucks me in the oven. Next thing I know I'm here."_

The Muggle's testimony was cut short by the entrance of Obliviators, clearly attempting to **obstruct the truth!**   
The story is confirmed by a Ministry worker who wishes to keep his identity secret! 

_"This person has captured no fewer than a dozen Muggle-baiters since last June."_

The Quibbler is thrilled to report that **we have uncovered his secret moniker!** The saver of Muggles, the hidden hero, goes by the name 

**The Scarlet Raven!**

We may never know his real identity, but Scarlet Raven, we salute you! 

Penelope snorted back a laugh and folded the Quibbler. This "Scarlet Raven" sounded a little silly, if he even existed, which -- given the source -- was dubious. Still, the Potter interview had the ring of truth about it. Putting down her coffee cup, she opened the magazine back up to the interview pages and re-read the list of alleged Death Eaters. 

Some of them were obscure names, but others were familiar; they had family members at Hogwarts, Penelope figured, or frequented the library. "Lucius Malfoy," she said aloud. Hadn't Percy mentioned him before ... the host of that dinner party? Wasn't he supposed to be a model citizen? 

Since her N.E.W.T.s eight months ago, Penelope hadn't studied anything as hard as she now studied Rita Skeeter's interview with Harry Potter. 

***

Eight notebooks full of international tariff law balanced on Percy's knees, but the only thing he paid attention to was the small parchment on top of it all. 

_Dear Penelope:   
These past three months have been empty. When you were Petrified I felt like my heart had been frozen with you. When you said goodbye I thought I would die._

It was all wrong. It all sounded too ... fabricated. Pre-planned. Percy made a noise of disgust and sank back into the cushions of Mother Swainbrooke's loveseat. 

Johnny Peasegood, sprawled on the sofa across from him, quit flipping through the copy of _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_ that the landlady had gotten him and glanced over at Percy. "Cauldron-bottom report not going well?" 

"Er -- no, it's not -- I mean, it's nothing." Percy's face ran a deep flush and he crumpled the note in his hands. He lobbed the ball of paper at the fireplace and missed. Without missing a beat, Hermes swooped from his perch, picked up the note and dropped it into the fire. 

Johnny laughed. 

The subject had to be changed. Cheeks flaming, Percy gathered up his Ministry work and started laying it out meticulously before him. "How's the book?" 

"Gooshy," said Johnny irritably. "Mr. Anonymous sounds like a sap." He threw the book onto the coffee table. "Always whining about how he's misunderstood. If I knew who he was I'd write him an owl and tell him to just move to the U.S. We've got anti-discrimination laws on _that_ side of the pond." 

"On _that_ side of the pond you make your tea in Boston Harbor," Percy sniffed, "and you think Quodpot is a worth the time." 

"God bless America," Johnny grinned. 

Percy snorted and resumed flipping through the paperwork in his lap. Two weeks working on one stupid tariff law. It wasn't even technically Fudge's jurisdiction -- the Department for International Magical Cooperation should have been handling it all. But when the Minister got his hooks into something, it was hard to take it back ... which left Percy knee-deep in books about foreign goods, import/export policy, shipping methods, and how the price of gold in China affected the price of corn in Brazil. 

Normally fascinating stuff. At the moment, however, he was sick of it. 

"I'm going out," he told Johnny, picking up the files and dumping them onto the coffee table. "Stay out of these documents. They are classified Ministry secrets." 

"Honestly, Weasley, d'you think I care?" Johnny said lazily. 

Percy looked him over. "Good point. I'll be back before midnight." 

"I won't," Johnny called after him. 

Percy shrugged into his cloak and set off into the chilly March evening. 

***

Perkins met him at the door, let him in, and whacked him on the head with a rolled-up magazine. 

_"Ow!"_

_"You bloody idiot!_ What have you been blabbing to the newspapers?" 

Percy looked at him blankly, rubbing his sore head. 

"Have you seen the Quibbler this month?" 

"Of course not!" Percy snapped. "I don't read rubbish like the Quibbler." 

"Well, read _this_ rubbish," Perkins growled, and thrust the magazine under his nose. 

Percy scanned the article. His jaw dropped farther with every sentence. At the end he managed a weak laugh. "What do you know. They salute me. Well, that'll be a help next time I'm after a really tough one, knowing that I've got a friend at the Quibbler --" 

Perkins snatched back the magazine, but Percy backed away before he could get smacked on the head again. 

"I didn't do it," he said indignantly. 

"That a fact?" Perkins growled. "Then how'd they find out that you're called the Raven, eh?" 

"Well -- one of the nurses asked. But they barely got a glimpse of me, and I sort of -- just hollered it over my shoulder as I was leaving. As if I would do something as stupid as selling my story to the Quibbler," he added huffily, matching Perkins glare for glare. 

"You'd sell your mother to get your name in the papers," Perkins said. He tossed the Quibbler to one side, ignoring Percy's offended sniffs. "Well, can't be helped now. Come on -- the Aurors reported a looting on Portobello Road -- a jewelry store. Place was a shambles but they found everything stashed in a corner under some towels. Sounds like a Niffler to me." 

Rolling his eyes resignedly, Percy followed his mentor into the living room to examine the Niffler situation. 

***

_Avery. Crabbe. Goyle. Malfoy. Macnair. Nott. Avery. Crabbe. Goyle_ ... 

Penelope chanted the names to herself as she filled out overdue forms. At first she had memorized the list as a kind of weak precaution -- in case anyone trapped her in a back alley, for instance, and then told her his name, she'd know whether he was a Death Eater or not. She'd even done research on the accused. Now she would occasionally get the list stuck in her head, running through on continuous repeat until she drove it away ... 

"I beg your pardon, Miss." 

The customer's voice was clipped and impatient. Penelope glanced up guiltily. The tall blonde man tipped her a sarcastic nod of his head. 

"I'm sorry to interrupt your ... ruminations. Would you mind doing your job and signing this out to me?" 

Penelope gritted her teeth and picked up the book that was slid across the counter toward her: _Vitium, Exitium, et Cruciamentum._ The tab on the spine confirmed that it came from the Dark Arts section. "The consumption of this book is regulated as per Ministerial Decree number Twelve, section two," Penelope recited, flipping the book open to the front cover. "Do you have a permit?" 

"Of course." The tall man slid a card across the counter. Penelope picked it up and flicked it over. Minister Fudge's signature, as well as that of the president of the Dark Arts Defense League, adorned one side of the card. "Verified," she said blandly. She glanced at the opposite side. 

Lucius Malfoy. 

Her eyes widened. She looked up into the tall man's face for the first time. The silver hair, straight nose and arrogant mouth were a clear copy of his son's. And he was wearing the same aloof, impenetrable expression that he had worn in the photographs of his trial, after the end of the war ... 

Malfoy's features stiffened. "Well?" 

"Ah --" Penelope tried to hide her surprise. "This is all in order." She returned the permit, stamped the book and passed it back across the counter to Malfoy, who lifted it up without taking his gray eyes from her face. 

"Thank you." The cool, clipped voice made the words sound like a curse. Silently, Malfoy turned and swept off to a corner of the library, where a stooped old witch and a very large wizard waited for him. As Penelope watched, they all turned to look at her. 

She dropped her eyes, face burning. Did they know what she'd been thinking? She grabbed up an armful of books and hurried off to shelve them, resolving to stay among the archives until they had gone. 

The three did not turn away. 

"I don't like the look that girl gave me," Lucius Malfoy murmured, as the ends of Penelope's curly golden hair disappeared around the corner. 

"Me neither," said Goyle, grinding one large fist into his meaty palm. 

"That comes from a Muggle upbringing," croaked Madam Meliflua shrewdly. "Oh yes," she added, as Lucius raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, "the girl's Muggle-born. From Kensington, I believe." 

"Dear dear," said Lucius softly, now gazing at the spot where Penelope had recently stood. "I do hope she's careful. With all these attacks on Muggles these days, it would be ... tragic ... if something were to happen to her family." His eyes flickered to Goyle. 

"Yeah," Goyle grunted, failing to fight the grin on his face. "Tragic." 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
Busty Betsy's Breast Enhancement Charms are copyright Poppy P, as seen in her very enjoyable fanfic Padma's Quest. See my Favorite Stories list for a link.   
Confidential to Yikes789: Because everyone deserves someone to write of them kindly. 


	14. There Are Lots of Snakes in this Chapter

**Chapter Fourteen: There Are Lots of Snakes in This Chapter**

April, Percy thought, trudging through the rain to Perkins' house, was a miserable month and should be avoided at all costs. 

The snowfall had turned into freezing, persistent rain which only partly melted the mounds of slush flanking the sidewalk. The bits of grass poking through all looked worn and yellow; the tiny leaves just beginning to dot the trees weren't enough to brighten the bleak post-winter landscape. 

Shivering in the chill, he mounted Perkins' porch and let himself in. 

Perkins was in the kitchen, bent over a scale model of the city that he had set up on the kitchen table. "There's some odd magical activity going on in Kensington," he said without preface, pointing at a number of tiny sparks spitting into the air from the model. A large, gold-wire instrument poised like a weird aerial over the area. It hummed discontentedly. 

Percy went straight to the closet and started tying on his mask. "Give me the coordinates." He tore off his shoes and began tugging on the Seven-League Boots. 

"Half way down Campden Hill Road where it intersects Bedford Gardens." 

Percy, standing on one leg, stopped dead to stare at Perkins and toppled right over. He scrambled back to his feet. "_Bedford Gardens,_ did you say?" 

Perkins nodded. All the color drained from Percy's face. 

"Good lord. That's where Penny lives!" 

He snatched up his cloak, whisked out his wand and vanished. 

***

The street lights were dim. The dark windows of the Clearwater house reflected their pale light onto the empty street. Percy crept into the back yard. What was going on inside that dead house, behind the blank facade? 

He bent his knees and leapt. 

Not for nothing had the Seven-League Boots leaked even into Muggle mythology. Percy went soaring over the house and landed neatly on the other side of the roof. He flattened and crawled over to the nearest window, gingerly lowering himself over the storm gutter so that he could peer in through the top of it. 

At first he could see nothing. The room was pitch dark. He grappled for the Hand of Glory, lit it, and slid it silently onto the windowsill. 

In the vague light, a huddled mass could be seen in the center of the room -- the Clearwater parents, crouching together with their arms around one another. Mr. Clearwater's pipe lay a few feet away, scattered shreds of tobacco still aglow against the carpet. Mrs. Clearwater appeared to be crying. After a few horrified moments, Percy tore his eyes away from the awful sight and finally took a close look at the room around them. 

It was teeming with snakes. 

Thick, slithering bodies writhed up the walls, swarmed over the furniture. A vast hissing boa hung from the chandelier and snapped its jaws above the Clearwaters' heads. A houseplant in the corner was a nest of wriggling grass snakes. They completely surrounded the couple, yet stayed frighteningly aloof -- none of them were closer than a foot away, Percy noted. Yet in and out they slithered, so that it could never be certain where they would end up next ... 

Percy was all ready to climb through the window when he paused. 

The moment he showed his face, the tormenters would Disapparate -- instantly gone, with no chance of capture. Better to let the terrible act go on a little longer, and be assured of justice. He heaved himself back up onto the roof. 

If the snakes remained, then the criminals were still here. They hadn't seen him arrive, so they must be inside -- in the corners of the living room, Percy guessed, or in the kitchen. Close enough to control the situation, and close enough to watch the fun... 

He crept along the roof until he was opposite the living room. Soundlessly, he slid open a window and slipped inside. 

He landed on something springy -- a mattress, he realized, and very carefully stepped to the floor. The light from the Hand of Glory flickered on the walls, which were covered with posters and photographs. 

Percy's heart gave a funny jolt. This must be Penelope's room. 

He'd never actually been inside; neither of them (and none of their parents) thought it was an appropriate place to entertain. Momentarily absorbed, he raised the Hand for a better look. The posters were varied: Albert Einstein, the Hobgoblins, the Holyhead Harpies, the Beatles. He moved closer. Some of the photographs moved, but many of them didn't; Penelope looked quite young in those. A moving photograph near the door caught his eye. 

He recognized it as soon as he was close enough to see. It was one that Bill had taken, when Penelope visited the Burrow in the summer before Percy's senior year. She looked breathtaking, perched on the garden fence with her hair flying in the wind, a hint of sunset behind her. Percy sat beside her. They were both laughing. 

Two and a half years ago. He couldn't believe that she'd kept that picture. How long since they had been that happy? How long since they had even been together ...? 

The sound of shattering glass rocketed through the house and Percy came alert again. He slunk across the room and out of the door. 

From here in the hallway he had a clear view of the kitchen. It led into the living room by an arch to the left of the hallway. The arch was filled with shadow -- then it moved, and Percy made out the forms of with two crouching men. They would be invisible from the living room, but from behind it was all too clear what they were up to. Percy rolled up his sleeves. It would take a powerful charm to get both of them at once. 

He raised his arm toward them. 

Something blunt and silver swished down in the moonlight and Percy was aware of blinding pain in his right shoulder. He dropped like a stone; the wand fell from his numb fingers. Flat on his back, he stared up into the round and grizzled face that loomed above him. It raised its head and whistled. 

The two in the doorway turned sharply. Together they stood straight and came down the hall -- one of them small and skinny, the other looming and massive across the shoulders. Percy's shoulder throbbed. The Hand of Glory had been extinguished in the fall; it lay palm-down several feet away, far out of reach. His wand was nowhere to be seen. He shifted, tried to roll over, but the first man brought his foot down onto Percy's chest and held it there. His uninjured arm began groping for his wand. 

The three gathered around him. The skinny one let out a delighted snivel. "Wot do we 'ave 'ere?" he crooned, bending toward Percy like a woman over a baby carriage. "An intruder ..." 

Percy swung his foot up and into the skinny man's chin. 

The fellow arched backward and bounced off the large one, who shoved him aside and reached down toward Percy's throat. Reaching up with his good arm, Percy hooked his elbow around the first man's ankle and jerked. 

The round-faced man collapsed on top of him; the large one lost his footing and followed. Percy couldn't hold back a howl of pain as someone's foot came down on his hurt shoulder. With a strength born of desperation, he shot his good hand into the pile of bodies. He brushed against a set of enormous fingers -- and a wand clutched within them. He grabbed hold of the wand and tugged with all his strength. The wand came free in his hand. 

By now the skinny man was on his feet, staggering toward the pile-up with a hand on his jaw. He saw the wand in Percy's hand and lunged toward it. "Can't 'ave that --" he snarled. 

There was an extremely loud clunk. The skinny man's eyes rolled up in his head and swooned onto the pile of bodies. A vase rolled down his back and shattered when it hit the floor. 

_"Ligare!"_ Percy gasped, completely winded. All three squirming criminals were instantly trussed up. "_Mobilicorpus_ --" 

He crab-crawled out from under the floating bodies and let them fall to the ground again. He looked up. Mr. and Mrs. Clearwater stood in the hallway; he had a candlestick, she had clearly just used up her weapon. Both looked shell-shocked but determined. "Who are they?" Mrs. Clearwater demanded, her voice shrill. "Why would they do this to us?" 

Percy scrambled to his feet. "Don't worry," he said, hoping that his voice wouldn't be recognized, "I assure you, they'll get the full extent of justice --" 

There was a flash of light from behind them. 

Percy whirled around and swore loudly. The round-faced man was gone -- and the skinny man was sliding from the ropes that were now far too loose. Snatching his wand from the ground, the skinny fellow disappeared with a crack before Percy could even raise his wand. 

_"Petrificus totalus!"_ The giant of a man, who had been struggling, stiffened and froze. "_Confound_ it all --" 

A wave of dizzying pain poured from his hurt shoulder and he sagged against the wall. Mrs. Clearwater started forward, her eyes worried. Percy forced himself to stand. Gritting his teeth, he collected his wand and the Hand of Glory from the hallway floor, making sure to stomp on the bound man whenever possible. He pointed his wand at the large fellow and he disappeared. Drawing a deep breath, he looked back up at the Clearwaters. 

"I'm sorry ... I need to erase your memory. Please hold --" 

A voice broke over his own. 

"Mum? Da? Are you here? The lights are off --" 

Percy froze. Penelope's face came into view at the end of the hall -- luminous and pale, beautiful in the moonlight. For a moment their eyes locked. Then Mr. Clearwater took her arm and drew her close. "Penny! Thank goodness -- you weren't here --" 

Percy took a step backward and Disapparated. 

"There were men --" Mrs. Clearwater was saying hysterically. "With -- wands, they were wizards -- snakes -- and then _this_ man --" She gestured to the hallway, and grew abruptly quiet when she saw that he was gone. 

Penelope gripped her father's hand, not knowing what to say. "That man -- saved you?" 

"He helped," said Mr. Clearwater gruffly. 

Mrs. Clearwater looked pleadingly at her daughter. "Who _was_ that?" 

Penelope stared at the empty hallway. "I thought he wasn't real," she said to herself. 

"Penny, who _was_ that?" Mrs. Clearwater's voice rose and trembled. 

"The Scarlet Raven." 

***

_"What do you mean, he's been captured?"_

The skinny man cowered from Lucius Malfoy's wrath. "Well, I mean 'ee's -- it wasn't us, we was hidden an' cunning --" 

"How," Lucius hissed, "did this happen?" 

"It was that scarlet chap," the skinny fellow whimpered, "the Scarlet Raven, the one wot I read about in the Quibbler. 'Ee ambushed us, wasn't nowhere for Goyle t' go, us two was lucky t' get out wi' our lives --" 

Lucius paced in front of the fire restlessly. "I don't need to tell you that Goyle was one of my best operatives," he said through his teeth. "I expected better." He crossed the room and threw himself into an enormous winged armchair. He sank into thought. The tips of his steepled fingers brushed his mouth. "The Scarlet Raven has deprived me of half a dozen valuable subordinates," he said. "We need to find him. This ... irritation ... must be dealt with." 

A timid voice spoke up from the corner. 

"I know him." 

Lucius spun toward the speaker, disdain on his lips. "Ridiculous. You haven't been in public for fifteen years." 

"I know him." A shimmering silver hand clenched itself into a fist. "I watched him grow up." 

Lucius raised his eyebrows. 

***

"I don't understand," Percy said, staring blankly at the flower-print wall. "Why the Clearwaters? Is it just some horrible coincidence ...?" 

Perkins snorted and put another strip of medicated gauze on Percy's bare shoulder. "Or is someone onto you?" he finished. 

Percy winced. "Careful --" He looked down at his hands. "If they're onto me, they're a little behind on their surveillance," he said, with a weak laugh. "I haven't seen Penny since Christmas. I don't see why they wouldn't attack me at home -- or try to draw me out by, say, attacking _you_." 

"Hold still," Perkins ordered. He tapped the shoulder wrappings and they stiffened into a cast. "Don't sleep on that side and you'll be good as new in the morning." 

He came around and lowered himself into the armchair across from Percy. For a few minutes he watched his injured protégé, who sat hunched over on the sofa, head down. Since Christmas, he hadn't even mentioned Penelope's name. It must have been wrenching to see her again. Perkins cleared his throat loudly. It didn't do to brood. 

"We'll put sensors around the Clearwater house," he said, and Percy looked up. "We'll know if they're targeted again. I don't know if it was intentional or sheer dumb luck ..." Percy grunted and settled back into the sofa. "... but from now on, Raven, we need to be more careful than ever." 

***

The weather was astonishingly sunny and clear for so early in the spring. 

Not a breath of wind licked the goals at the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. The still-feeble sun did its best against the lingering chill, and a brilliant blue sky betrayed the crisp temperatures. 

If the Gryffindor/Slytherin game was the most emotionally charged, then the Slytherin/Ravenclaw game was surely the most artfully played. Tactics, formations, cunning and stealth from both sides of the pitch -- at times it was chess or ballet, at least during the parts where the Beaters weren't involved. 

It was a joy to watch, thought Minister Fudge, seated pleasantly in the teachers' box. Young people striving to achieve. It did one's heart good. 

Lucius Malfoy leaned over to his friend. "Enjoying yourself, Minister?" 

"Yes, quite!" Fudge chuckled. "Wonderful sport. Reminds me of the World Cup -- the game, of course, not all the you-know-what afterwards." 

Lucius's face was all serious concern. "Of course." 

"And it's splendid to see your son in action," Fudge went on quickly. "I admit, he's quite the flyer!" 

"He does enjoy ... competition," said Lucius. He let his gaze drift to the field. "Much like the young Junior Assistant of yours. He was quite an achiever at Hogwarts, I believe." 

"Yes, yes," said Minister Fudge, chuckling. "Excellent résumé. Head Boy, in fact." 

"Mm hmm." The Slytherin Keeper made a smooth save and Lucius paused to clap politely. Then he turned his attention back to the Minister. "He must have been in with Dumbledore very well, to earn a position like that." 

"Oh -- yes, I suppose so." Minister Fudge looked a bit surprised at the revelation. "I hadn't thought of that, I admit." 

"Never mind, Minister, it would never have crossed many a mind." He paused again. "It does seem strange ..." 

"What? Strange?" 

Lucius thinned his lips. "May I be perfectly frank with you, Cornelius?" 

"Certainly, Lucius! What ever --" 

"Then I must tell you of a suspicion that has been growing in my mind. Young Weasley. Are you entirely certain of where his loyalty lies?" 

"Why, of course!" said Minister Fudge, but his eyebrows contracted in worry. "What do you mean?" 

"Nothing serious, Cornelius," said Lucius quietly, watching both teams dart around the field. "It merely seems to me that a split from such a large family is quite an extreme measure to take. Almost ... too extreme?" 

"Young Weasley had his reasons," said Minister Fudge. "He was quite adamant." 

"It is a credit to you, Minister," said Lucius, "that you would trust the son of a man who so persistently and so publicly disagrees with your actions." 

They watched the game in silence for a few moments. 

"Do you think --" 

"It's possible, Minister." 

Many more seconds passed. Slytherin scored. 

"Could he --" 

"I see no reason why not." 

One of the Ravenclaw Chasers was mauled by a Bludger and time-out was called. 

"Should I --" 

"No, no, Minister, there's no need to remove the boy from his position." Lucius smiled. "But you should perhaps keep a closer eye on him. In fact, I will do the same." 

"Lucius, you are a true friend," said Minister Fudge with relief, as the Quaffle went back into play. 

Mr. Malfoy, former school governor, philanthropist, and confidante of the Minister of Magic, was serene. 

"Thank you, Minister." 


	15. One Flies Out of the Cuckoo's Nest

**Chapter Fifteen: One Flies Out of the Cuckoo's Nest**

"I don't know who came up with this stuff," said Johnny dourly. 

"I think it was an accident," said Percy, poking at his bowl. 

"Eat your hummus," growled Mother Swainbrooke. 

Johnny stabbed at the stuff in his bowl and then pushed it away. "Oops -- I just remembered, Max and Benny asked me to meet them for dinner tonight. Don't want to disappoint --" 

He leapt out of his chair. 

"I don't suppose I could --" Percy turned to call after Johnny and an owl flew into his face. 

The owl collapsed to the floor, a rumpled purple paper clutched in his talons. Spitting out feathers, Percy plucked up the letter and unfolded it. He snapped to attention. 

"Madam Swainbrooke, I am needed by the Minister of Magic," he announced, loud enough so that Johnny could hear. "I must depart by fireplace immediately." 

The landlady put her hands on her meaty hips. "Really, Mr. Weasley," she said scornfully, "if ye didn't want any hummus, you could've just said so." 

Her words were lost. Johnny had already escaped out the front door, and Percy stepped briskly into the Floo. 

Percy emerged from the fireplace in the post office in Hogsmeade. Nodding to the postal worker, who bore a dozen owls on his arms with a weary resignation, he stepped lightly out into the street. 

A collection of people stood waiting for him on the sidewalk: Minister Fudge, flanked by Kingsley Shacklebolt and the bulldog-faced Auror, Dawlish. Fudge held a heavy scroll and a handful of quills, which he thrust into Percy's arms. He looked fanatically excited. 

"Come along -- got a coach waiting --" The street lights glinted from his eyes. "You'll need to take notes -- yes, every word. Every word ..." 

The coach, bouncing along by itself, took them to the door of Hogwarts. Percy paused at the bottom of the great stone steps. He'd been back since graduation -- twice, in fact -- for the Triwizard Tournament. But he hadn't returned since Mr. Crouch's disappearance, or since the break from his family. Hogwarts, it seemed, belonged to a different part of his life. 

"Come _along,_ lad!" Minister Fudge gestured excitedly from the top of the stairs. Percy suppressed the memories and hurried after him. 

Through the Entrance Hall -- past the Great Hall -- up the moving staircases and through the haunted halls. Every step was familiar. When Minister Fudge reached a pair of gargoyles and barked, "Open in the name of the Ministry of Magic!" the staircase swirled up before them in expectation. One by one they rose up to the office of the Headmaster. 

When they reached the highly polished door, Minister Fudge reached forward and pounded the knocker heartily. The door sprang open. He strode inside, the Aurors at his side, with Percy trailing obediently behind. 

The Headmaster's office was just as Percy remembered it, with portraits of old Headmasters and Fawkes preening in the corner -- and now that he had worked with Perkins for a year, he recognized some of the devices lining the walls. Dumbledore sat behind his desk and inclined his head in greeting. Professor McGonagall was there too, straight-backed beside the Headmaster. He opened his mouth to greet her -- then caught the way that Fudge was watching him. Instead he nodded curtly and retreated, head down, to an empty corner of the room. 

The silence was extremely uncomfortable. In his best, most efficient, most dignified manner, Percy unrolled the scroll and began taking down preliminary notes: The time, the date, those presently assembled. The latter included Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall, as well as Fudge and the two Aurors. And himself, Percy thought importantly, making note of his full name and title on the parchment. 

"Well, Mr. Weasley. I trust that things are going well for you at the Ministry?" 

Percy looked up at the thoroughly unexpected sound of Dumbledore's voice. The Headmaster was gazing at him pleasantly, hands folded on the desk. For once, Percy felt himself completely at a loss. Who was he supposed to please now? Fudge or Dumbledore? 

"Ah -- very well, sir," he said, hazarding a nervous glance at Fudge, who was watching him keenly, and McGonagall, who had the same sharp look on her own face. "Thank you for the recommendation." 

"It was my pleasure," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "It was my hope that the qualities that you showed as Head Boy would carry over to the good of the country." 

"Er --" He _couldn't_ show undue fondness for Dumbledore, but neither could he turn a cold shoulder to a compliment. This whole situation was dangerous. He shouldn't have come. "I -- ah -- think it will." He bent his head and absorbed himself in note-taking, hoping no one would realize that there was nothing to take notes on. 

To his great relief, before the conversation could continue the door sprang open. Dolores Umbridge strode inside. She had Harry Potter by the arm. 

Fudge's face absolutely lit up at the sight of him, and not in a friendly way. Potter wrenched himself free and met the Minister glare for glare. 

"Well," said Fudge, not bothering to mask the satisfaction in his voice. "Well, well, well ..." 

"He was heading back to Gryffindor Tower," Madam Umbridge told them, sounding quite as delighted as Fudge. That sounded useful, so Percy started taking notes. "The Malfoy boy cornered him." 

Fudge nodded his approval. "Did he, did he? I must remember to tell Lucius. Well, Potter ... I expect you know why you are here?" 

"Yeh -- no." 

Everyone looked at him. Potter's voice had switched halfway through from defiance to innocence. Fudge blinked. 

"I beg your pardon?" 

"No," said Harry. 

Fudge exchanged a glance with Umbridge. "You _don't_ know why you are here?" 

"No, I don't," said Harry stubbornly. 

A heavily sarcastic tinge slid into Fudge's voice. "So you have no idea why Professor Umbridge has brought you to this office? You are not aware that you have broken any school rules?" 

"School rules? No." 

"Or Ministry decrees?" Fudge added quickly. 

"Not that I'm aware of," said Harry. He certainly had some cheek, Percy thought to himself. 

"So it's news to you, is it, that an illegal student organization has been discovered within this school?" Fudge was sounding angrier by the second. 

"Yes, it is." Harry did not look convincing. 

It was news to Percy, though, and his heart suddenly sank. An organization meant that more than one person was involved; and if Harry was there, so was Ron. Maybe the twins. Maybe even Ginny ... He hoped fervently that Ron had read that letter carefully, and that he at least hadn't got caught. 

Dolores Umbridge interrupted the fruitless interrogation sweetly. "I think, Minister, we might make better progress if I fetch our informant." 

"Yes, yes, do," said Minister Fudge. He slid his gaze over to Dumbledore as Umbridge left. "There's nothing like a good witness, is there, Dumbledore?" he added maliciously. 

The Headmaster was placid. "Nothing at all, Cornelius." 

Madam Umbridge did not return for several awkward minutes. When she did, she had a curly-haired girl by the shoulder. Percy wondered whether her expression was one of fear or remorse; she had her hands over her face. 

"Don't be scared, dear, don't be frightened," Madam Umbridge said soothingly. "It's quite all right now, you've done the right thing. The minister is very pleased with you. He'll be telling your mother what a good girl you've been." She turned back to Fudge. "Marietta's mother, Minister, is Madam Edgecomb from the Department of Magical Transportation, Floo Network office -- she's been helping us police the Hogwarts fires, you know." 

Percy arched an eyebrow. They were patrolling the Hogwarts fires? He hadn't heard about that. 

"Jolly good, jolly good!" said Fudge. "Like mother, like daughter, eh? Well come on, now, dear, look up, don't be shy, let's hear what you've got to -- galloping gargoyles!" 

Percy remembered the way that Penelope had carried on about a blotch on her nose two years ago. It had nothing on this. A constellation of blemishes blossomed across the girl's face in the form of the word SNEAK. Percy shuddered. Even that poor Midgen girl had never broken out this bad. Fudge was so startled that he jumped backward into the fireplace and caught his robes on fire. Marietta wailed and hid her face under the neck of her robes. 

"Never mind that now, dear," said Umbridge, as Fudge was stamping out his singeing hemline, "just take your robes away from your mouth and tell the Minister --" Marietta whimpered and shook her head. "Oh, very well, you silly girl, _I'll_ tell him." She bestowed her sticky-sweet smile on Fudge. "Well, Minister, Miss Edgecomb here came to my office shortly after dinner this evening and told me she had something she wanted to tell me. She said that if I proceeded to a secret room on the seventh floor, sometimes known as the Room of Requirement, I would find out something to my advantage. I questioned her a little further and she admitted that there was to be some kind of meeting there. Unfortunately at that point this hex came into operation and upon catching sight of her face in my mirror the girl became too distressed to tell me any more." 

"Well now." Fudge gave Marietta a kind smile. "It is very brave of you, my dear, coming to tell Professor Umbridge, you did exactly the right thing. Now, will you tell me what happened at this meeting? What was its purpose? Who was there?" 

Marietta shook her head again. The eyes poking over the edge of her robes were wide. 

Fudge turned to Umbridge and then the Aurors. "Haven't we got a counterjinx for this? So she can speak freely?" 

"I have not yet managed to find one," Umbridge admitted. "But it doesn't matter if she won't speak, I can take up the story from here. You will remember, Minister, that I sent you a report back in October that Potter had met a number of fellow students in the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade --" 

"And what is your evidence for that?" said Professor McGonagall sharply. 

"I have testimony from Willy Widdershins, Minerva, who happened to be in the bar at the time." 

Percy nearly dropped his quill. Widdershins --? 

"He was heavily bandaged, it is true, but his hearing was quite unimpaired. He heard every word Potter said and hastened straight to the school to report to me --" 

Heavily bandaged! It must have been just after his face was set on fire. If only he'd been caught the first time! 

Professor McGonagall bridled. "Oh, so that's why he wasn't prosecuted for setting up all those regurgitating toilets! What an interesting insight into our justice system!" 

A portrait on the wall chimed in: "Blatant corruption! The Ministry did not cut deals with petty criminals in my day, no sir, they did not!" 

"Thank you, Fortescue, that will do," Dumbledore said calmly. 

Madam Umbridge went on: "The purpose of Potter's meeting with these students was to persuade them to join an illegal society, whose aim was to learn spells and curses the Ministry has decided are inappropriate for school-age --" 

Dumbledore interrupted politely. "I think you'll find you're wrong there, Dolores." 

Now it was Fudge's turn to rear up indignantly. "Oho! Yes, do let's hear the latest cock-and-bull story designed to pull Potter out of trouble! Go on, then, Dumbledore, go on -- Willy Widdershins was lying, was he? Or was it Potter's identical twin in the Hog's Head that day? Or is there the usual simple explanation involving a reversal of time, a dead man coming back to life, and a couple of invisible dementors?" 

That sounded like a joke. Percy forced out a hearty laugh. "Oh, very good, Minister, very good!" Inwardly, he was seething. _This_ was why he'd had to go and capture Willy Widdershins a second time? _This_ was the reason two Muggles had to have their fingers regrown? 

"Cornelius, I do not deny -- and nor, I am sure, does Harry -- that he was in the Hog's Head that day, nor that he was trying to recruit students to a Defense Against the Dark Arts group. I am merely pointing out that Dolores is quite wrong to suggest that such a group was, at that time, illegal. If you remember, the Ministry decree banning all student societies was not put into effect until two days after Harry's Hogsmeade meeting, so he was not breaking any rules in the Hog's Head at all." 

Two days after the Hogsmeade meeting would have been a Monday. Percy stopped writing for a moment, completely struck dumb. So that was the rush for Educational Decree Twenty-Four -- to cater to the whims of Madam Umbridge! He felt as if he had been sucker-punched. Had Fudge always been such a shameless panderer? 

He recovered himself in enough time to take the next statement from Madam Umbridge. "That's all very fine, Headmaster. But we are now nearly six months on from the introduction of Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four. If the first meeting was not illegal, all those that have happened since most certainly are." 

"Well, they certainly would be," Dumbledore agreed, "if they had continued after the decree came into effect. Do you have any evidence that these meetings continued?" 

A very small whisper struck Percy's ears. He glanced to the side in time to see Kingsley Shacklebolt lower his wand. Odd ... 

"Evidence?" said Madam Umbridge. She might have said the word "checkmate" with the same tone. "Have you not been listening, Dumbledore? Why do you think Miss Edgecomb is here?" 

"Oh, can she tell us about six months' worth of meetings?" Dumbledore was politely attentive. "I was under the impression that she was merely reporting a meeting tonight." 

Professor Umbridge nodded and turned to Marietta. "Miss Edgecome, tell us how long these meetings have been going on, dear. You can simply nod or shake your head, I'm sure that won't make the spots worse. Have they been happening regularly over the last six months?" 

Nothing happened. 

"Just nod or shake your head, dear," Umbridge urged. "Come on, now, that won't activate the jinx further ..." 

For a few seconds Marietta stared straight ahead. Then -- ever so slowly -- she shook her head. 

Umbridge glanced at Fudge, confused. "I don't think you understood the question, did you, dear? I'm asking whether you've been going to these meetings for the past six months? You have, haven't you?" 

Marietta shook her head again. 

Umbridge looked confused and exasperated. "What do you mean by shaking your head, dear?" 

Professor McGonagall stepped up. "I would have thought her meaning was quite clear," she said sharply. "There have been no secret meetings for the past six months. Is that correct, Miss Edgecombe?" 

Marietta nodded. 

Now Umbridge looked less perplexed than furious. "But there was a meeting tonight!" she said, almost quaking. "There was a meeting, Miss Edgecombe, you told me about it, in the Room of Requirement! And Potter was the leader, was he not, Potter organized it, Potter -- _why are you shaking your head, girl?"_

"Well, usually when a person shakes their head," said Professor McGonagall irritably, "they mean 'no'. So unless Miss Edgecombe is using a form of sign language as yet unknown to humans --" 

Percy did not think it would be prudent to point out that a shake of the head meant "yes" in both Greek and Bulgarian body language. He hunched closer to his notes. 

At that moment, though, Dolores Umbridge seemed to snap. She grabbed Marietta by the shoulders and began to shake her violently. Instantly, Dumbledore was on his feet with his wand out. Kingsley, too, started forward, but Umbridge let go suddenly, as if a shock had passed through her hands. 

"I cannot allow you to manhandle my students, Dolores," said Dumbledore, angrier than Percy had seen him through the whole scene. 

"You want to calm yourself, Madam Umbridge," Kingsley added evenly. "You don't want to get yourself into trouble now." 

"No," said Umbridge, looking quite shaken at her own outburst. "I mean, yes -- you're right, Shacklebolt -- I -- I forgot myself." 

Fudge broke in impatiently. "Dolores, the meeting tonight -- the one we know definitely happened --" 

Umbridge took a breath. "Yes, yes ... well, Miss Edgecombe tipped me off and I proceeded at once to the seventh floor, accompanied by certain trustworthy students, so as to catch those in the meeting red-handed. It appears that they were forewarned of my arrival, however, because when we reached the seventh floor they were running in every direction. It does not matter, however. I have all their names here, Miss Parkinson ran into the Room of Requirement for me to see if they had left anything behind ... We needed evidence and the room provided ..." She pulled a parchment from her pocket and handed it to Fudge. "The moment I saw Potter's name on the list, I knew what we were dealing with," she said meaningfully. 

Percy craned his neck to see if his siblings were on the list but Fudge was too far away. 

"Excellent. Excellent, Dolores." He took a closer look at the list and his eyes widened in both surprise and delight. "And ... by thunder ... See what they've named themselves?" He looked up a Dumbledore and his voice dropped to a whisper. _"Dumbledore's Army."_

Without a word, Dumbledore reached out and took the paper from Fudge. For long moments he looked at the list silently. There was something in his expression that seemed less calm than before. A sense of unfounded dread curled in Percy's stomach. 

Finally Dumbledore looked up. He was smiling. "Well, the game is up. Would you like a written confession from me, Cornelius -- or will a statement before these witnesses suffice?" 

The room was stunned. 

"Statement?" said Fudge slowly, not taking his eyes from the Headmaster. "What -- I don't --?" 

"Dumbledore's Army, Cornelius. Not Potter's Army. _Dumbledore's Army."_

"But -- but --" A sudden understanding burst on his face. He jumped backward, hit the fireplace again, and leapt back out. "-- _you?_" 

"That's right," said Dumbledore. He did not sound perturbed. 

"You organized this?" 

"I did." 

"You recruited these students for -- for your army?" 

"Tonight was supposed to be the first meeting," said Dumbledore. He didn't sound in the least bit remorseful. "Merely to see whether they would be interested in joining me. I see now that it was a mistake to invite Miss Edgecombe, of course." 

Fudge swelled like an offended hen. "Then you _have_ been plotting against me!" 

"That's right," Dumbledore said cheerfully. 

Horror flashed on Potter's face. He suddenly seemed to realize what was happening. "NO! No -- Professor Dumbledore!" 

Dumbledore fixed him with that infamously calm, piercing gaze. "Be quiet, Harry, or I am afraid you will have to leave my office." 

"Yes, shut up, Potter!" Fudge snapped. "Well, well, well -- I came here tonight expecting to expel Potter and instead --" 

"Instead you get to arrest me." Dumbledore smiled. "It's like losing a Knut and finding a Galleon, isn't it?" 

Minister Fudge couldn't hide his utter delight. He spun toward Percy. "Weasley! Weasley, have you written it all down, everything he's said, his confession, have you got it?" 

_I always do,_ thought Percy disdainfully. He said, "Yes, sir, I think so, sir!", making sure to fill his voice with as much enthusiasm as possible. Potter's look of disgust was not lost on him. 

"The bit about how he's been trying to build up an army against the Ministry," Minister Fudge went on, glowing with joy, "how he's been working to destabilize me?" 

"Yes, sir, I've got it, yes!" Percy said. Oh, he wanted out of there, he wanted _out of that room,_ and most of all he wanted to wring the neck of Willy Widdershins. 

"Very well then." Fudge looked like he had been promoted to Minister of the World. "Duplicate your notes, Weasley, and send a copy to the Daily Prophet at once. If we send a fast owl we should make the morning edition!" 

Percy crumpled his notes in his hands and dashed out. He took no care with the door as he left. 

***

Three transcriptions and an owl to the Prophet later, Percy stormed to Perkins' house and banged on the door. 

Perkins, in dressing gown and purple slippers, opened the door. He squinted up at Percy through a pair of reading glasses. "It's too late for swordplay. Go away." 

Percy strode inside. "We are completely on our own, Perkins," he said crisply. "Dumbledore has left Hogwarts." 

Perkins' face showed utter disbelief. "Left --?" 

"Has been forced out, I should say, by Minister Fudge," said Percy. His voice was bitter. Perkins followed his stormy wake into the living room. "Now the Order's most powerful member has lost all his standing. You were right about Kingsley Shacklebolt, by the way," he added. "He saved Potter from expulsion, though he couldn't prevent Dumbledore getting arrested." 

_"Arrested --?"_

"Don't worry, he got away." Percy threw himself into the patched armchair. "The Order is powerless and the Minister will be no help." 

Perkins drew up a chair. "I think you'd better tell me exactly what happened," he said slowly. 

"Read my notes," said Percy, tossing him a scroll. "I did them in triplicate." 

Perkins read the notes through four times. Afterward, he leaned back in his chair with his hands on his knees, gazing absently at a corner of the ceiling. 

"This is very strange," he said slowly. Percy snorted assent. "Very unexpected. And I'm afraid ... it's very bad." 

***

The lights of The Grinning Goose were dim; the late-night conversation, sparse. A pair of men hunched in the corner of the tiny upstairs restaurant, one nursing a glass of red currant rum and the other sipping a poison-green martini. Toasts and congratulations had given way to satisfied sighs, ruminations and the sad, fond remembrance of an enemy defeated. 

"Well done, Minister," said Lucius Malfoy for perhaps the tenth time that night. "You succeeded in what the entire board of governors failed to do three years ago." 

"Yes, thank you, thank you." The hand that reached for the glass shook slightly. "Amazing, just astonishing what had been going on my back all this long year." 

"Simply unbelievable," said Lucius Malfoy. "Although you know," he added, leaning closer, "I always did suspect that Dumbledore was plotting against you." 

"As did I," Fudge muttered, his brow creased. "And now we have all the proof we could ask for. I only wish we knew where he was." He sighed. "Well, there's more than one good thing to come of it." 

Mr. Malfoy inclined his head curiously. 

"The young Weasley's as loyal as they get. He was quite as happy as I was to see Dumbledore gone. You should have seen him, Lucius. It would've put all your doubts to rest." 

Mr. Malfoy gave Minister Fudge a thin-lipped smile around the rim of his martini. "Perhaps." 

***

The next two weeks were a frenzy in the Ministry of Magic. After the Daily Prophet article about Dumbledore's Army and subsequent disappearance, the story was picked up in everything from _Transfiguration Today_ to _Witch Weekly_. Far from being relieved at the disappearance of his imagined enemy, Fudge started to become more than a little paranoid. He made unannounced visits on departments which housed known Dumbledore supporters, and took every possible chance to remind people of the terrible conspiracy in Hogwarts (and how it was most wisely prevented.) 

Percy spent a lot of time writing press releases and replying to letters. Occasionally he thought about sending in a tip to the Daily Prophet about Willy Widdershins, but it would be too easily traceable -- and besides, it wouldn't do to turn public support against one's own boss. Whether or not he was a brainless git. 

One evening in late April, Percy trudged home from the office an hour late and thoroughly exhausted. He plodded inside and hung his cloak. As he was closing the door, Mother Swainbrooke came from the kitchen, wiping her meaty hands on a dishcloth. 

"Mr. Weasley! It's good you're home." She beamed. "You've a guest." 

Percy went into the kitchen to see his brother Charlie seated at the table. 

He stopped dead. Charlie, who had a mug of tea in his big scarred hands, put down the drink and stood up awkwardly. "Hullo, Perce." 

"What are you ...?" 

"Don't tell Dad I came here," said Charlie, "but you need to hear this in person." He hesitated. "You might want to sit down." 

Moments later, the calm of early evening was shattered. 

"Fred and George did _what?!?"_

***

"They turned the whole corridor into a swamp?" Perkins asked, sipping tea from a pink flowered cup. 

"The whole floor. _Ouch!"_

"Be on guard for that one-two attack. And then they flew away?" 

"On confiscated broomsticks -- ow, bugger it all -- which they stole back from the Headmistress's quarters." 

"I still say you ought to be proud. Bloody hard, conjuring a whole swamp." 

"Perkins -- oof -- I am not -- _ouch_ -- proud of that pair of bandits -- OUCH!" 

Perkins whistled sharply and the Guardian sword withdrew to its place over the mantelpiece. "That's enough for today, you'll have blood all over my wallpaper if you don't stop now," he told Percy, who dropped his sword to the floor and staggered to the sofa. 

His arms and sides were sliced in a dozen places. Percy stripped off his ruined shirt and went to work medicating them while Perkins tossed some kippers into the skillet. 

"Don't get me wrong, it was nice to see Charlie again," Percy philosophized, dabbing at his wounds with a wet cloth. "But my other brothers have become vandals, scofflaws and secondary-school dropouts." 

"They've always been scofflaws," said Perkins, handing him a tube of murtlap ointment. 

"Yes, but now they're scofflaws with an incomplete education and no N.E.W.T.s," Percy reminded him. "I'll live to see them carted off to Azkaban. You mark my words." 

"And if those devices of theirs ever make it into the hands of Muggles," Perkins chuckled, scraping the kippers onto a plate and breaking some eggs into the frying pan, "it'll be you doing the carting." 


	16. Murder Most Fowl

**Chapter Sixteen: Murder Most Fowl**

The heavy rain of late May beat down on the windows of Mother Swainbrooke's home. Inside, haloed by lamplight, Percy was hard at work. 

Across his desk lay a map of London, Floo nodes marked with bright green dots. Red crosses marked the sites of attacks on Muggles -- in the past few weeks, incidences had skyrocketed. _I can't keep up with them all,_ Percy thought, marking another green dot from the notes that lay before him. But then, if they were so many that he couldn't control them, they might also be enough to make the Ministry of Magic take notice. 

A familiar hooting reached his ears. Absently, Percy went to the window and opened it up to receive his owl. It had begun to rain harder. He moved some of his things to keep them from getting wet; then he went back to his notes. There had been a Muggle-baiting near St. James's Park; Perkins had promised to compile a list of known Voldemort supporters and purebloods in the immediate area. Percy couldn't act until the list was in his hands. Without a doubt, Hermes carried the information at that moment. 

The long, beautiful note sang out again -- and without warning became a shrill shriek that broke off into silence. 

Percy dashed to the window in time to see the owl falter and fall in mid-air, a shimmering shaft through its limp body. 

_"Hermes!"_

The bird crashed to the pavement, parchment clutched in one claw, and lay motionless while a wet dark stain drenched the cobblestones around him. 

Heedless of the rain, Percy leaned out of the window numbly. Slow, disjointed thoughts fumbled through his mind. 

_He's dead -- Hermes is dead? _

Someone shot him down, deliberately. 

Someone knows ... 

He stared down at the crumpled mass on the street below, uncomprehending. Not a feather flickered on the dead bird. Apart from the shock of losing his beloved pet, a new worry sprung in his mind. 

_Someone knows who I am. _

Destroy the evidence. Destroy the evidence. 

Numbly, he reached for his wand and pointed it at the mangled feathers. Destroy the evidence. He croaked, _"Incendio."_ Both bird and message went up in a brief, spectacular flame. 

There was a knock on the door. 

Percy whirled around. The door creaked open to reveal the landlady's round face, cautious and concerned. "Are ye all right, Mr. Weasley? I heard ye cry out." 

"Perfectly fine," said Percy breathlessly, perfectly aware that he sounded anything _but_ all right. "Something -- startled me --" 

"So long as you're unhurt, Mr. Weasley," the landlady smiled. "You've a guest." 

She stepped aside to reveal Penelope Clearwater at the top of the stairs. 

***

Penelope involuntarily raised a hand to her mouth at the sight of him. Percy was drenched from the shoulders up, hair dripping in a pale and slightly panicky face. For a moment she was tempted to think that he was just that horrified to see her unexpectedly, and her cheeks went pink -- but no, there was something genuinely wrong, the way he stood backed up against the open window, still clutching the sill with whitened fingers. 

"Thank you, Mrs. Swainbrooke," said Penelope, stepping carefully into Percy's room. "We'll be fine." 

Casting him a wink, the landlady backed out and shut the door. 

For a moment they locked eyes. Then Percy cleared his throat and straightened up, full of his old pomposity. Penelope couldn't help asking. 

"Percy, are you sure you're all right?" 

"I said that I was fine." He stood up and strode to the desk, gathering a mass of scattered papers in his arms. Then he crossed the room and chucked them all into the fireplace. 

Penelope started a little as the fire roared up. "What are you doing?" 

"Cleaning," said Percy, pulling two cloth-bound tomes from the bookshelf and throwing them on the fire. "Do you have something to say? I'm quite busy." 

"Er --" Penelope watched as two more books and a quill went into the fire. They were followed by a pair of shoes and more parchments. "I was ... I wondered how you were doing." 

"Did you?" Percy rounded on her haughtily. The flame flickered on his cheeks. "I'm very well. Is that all?" 

Penelope took a deep breath. "Not quite," she admitted. She started to move toward the open window. 

Percy got there first and slammed the windows shut. "Horrible weather this year," he said. "Appalling really." 

"Yes ... yes, horrible," said Penelope. Why was he acting so odd? "Percy, I ... I thought we should talk." 

"Did you?" He was slim and straight-backed, framed by the closed shutters. "Whatever about?" 

"Well -- us," said Penelope. She wasn't sure whether to be angry at his coldness or saddened by it. She felt like Percy's mother must have felt after the row -- a mix of hatred and a love so deep that it hurt. She forced out the words that she had practiced. "I may have been too harsh with you at Christmas. It was so sudden, it wasn't fair to you not to give any warning of what I was thinking. I think if we just tried to talk to one another more about the things that really matter --" 

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Penny," said Percy, detached as a professor. "In fact, I think you were quite right." 

Penelope looked up at him as her train of thought hit a cow on the tracks. "You what?" 

"I quite agree. We are very different people, Penny, and we cannot fill each other's expectations." The words came out with a dry, clinical precision. "You realized it before I did. I congratulate you." 

Penelope looked from Percy to the fireplace and back again. "But you see, what I meant to say when I came here was that --" 

Percy waved a hand carelessly. "It's not important." 

A deep urgency rushed through Penelope's mind. "Oh Percy, don't you see? It's _so_ important --" 

His cold words cut into her own. 

"I really think you should go now." 

The words hit Penelope like a wave of cold water. She took a moment to regain her breath. "I think you may be right," she said in a low voice. "Only I'm not sure I'll say 'Goodbye' this time." 

"I will," said Percy. His eyes were hidden behind the spectacles that glimmered with firelight. "Goodbye, Penny." 

Penelope felt as if something inside her had died. She nodded, gazing at the floor. She met his eyes -- not eyes at all, but panes of glass -- and nodded again. "All right." She swallowed hard. "Yes." She straightened the sleeve of her sweater needlessly. "Do take care, Percy." Then two swift, reluctant steps to the door and she was gone. 

Gone. 

Percy watched the door for many minutes after it closed. 

At least she would be safe. 

Sick to the pit of his stomach, Percy went back to destroying the incriminating evidence. 

***

Penelope was two blocks away when she came to a corner and stopped. 

She stood stock-still under the stark light of a street lamp, rain sheeting down on all sides, drenching her cloak and hood. The sidewalks were empty, the streets wide black rivers. Her hands had curled into fists at her sides. With great effort she unclenched them. Closing her eyes, Penelope took three deep breaths. 

She was not going to give up like this. 

Percy wasn't himself. Something was wrong. She had to go back, if nothing else to set her mind at ease. 

But more pressingly even than this was the certainty that fought through her, augmented with memories and images from years ago, from weeks before. She needed him. She had come to get him back. Nothing -- not even his cold dismissal -- could keep her from trying again. 

Penelope turned around and began to walk. 

She rounded the corner in time to see the door to Mother Swainbrooke's home swing open. Breathless suddenly, almost afraid, she retreated behind a corner. 

Percy stepped lightly outside and practically leapt down the stairs. He carried an umbrella but had forgotten to open it. _He's coming after me,_ Penelope thought, heart rising to her throat. She began to step out to meet him, hands trembling -- then she gasped and pulled back against the wall. 

From an alley, a pair of huge figures leapt onto the sidewalk, blocking Percy's way. Percy's hand went for his pocket but as soon as he had his wand in hand, twin cries of _"Expelliarmus!"_ sent it speeding into the hand of one assailant. 

Percy gripped his umbrella with both hands and began swinging it like a sword, jabbing at the two thugs with smooth, fierce motions. He caught one in the chest with the tip of his bumbershoot -- the man howled and staggered backward, clutching his chest. Percy swung the umbrella up and under the second man's chin. The man fell back, but as he did the first one regained his breath and charged. 

He tackled Percy expertly, butting his head into the boy's chest, and Percy was thrown back several yards. The umbrella flew from his hands. Instantly, the second man pointed a wand at him; ropes sprang from his wand tip and trussed Percy from shoulder to ankle. Another spell silenced him, although he had barely made a noise since the whole incredible scene began. 

Penelope watched helplessly as the larger man picked up Percy, slung him over one shoulder, and retreated with his companion back into the alley from which they had come. 

She bolted down the street and banged on Madam Swainbrooke's door. 

The landlady opened the door almost immediately. "Miss Clearwater! Ye've just missed Mr. Weasley, he stepped out only a moment ago." 

Penelope interrupted her without apology. "I need to see Johnny immediately." 

Mother Swainbrooke's face crinkled sadly. "I'm sorry, my dear, 'tis that time of the month --" 

"I know. That's exactly why I need to see him." She pushed her way into the house and started up the stairs. "He's had his potion, hasn't he?" 

"Why yes -- but --" 

"Then he's perfectly harmless." 

At the door to his bedroom, Penelope stood aside to let Mother Swainbrooke unlock the door with a massive iron key from her waist. Pushing ahead again, she turned the knob and the door swung open. 

The room was dark, save for the moonlight streaming through one window. Penelope thought she saw a glimmer of yellow eyes. 

"Johnny," said Penelope sharply. 

There was a whimper from the corner. 

"Johnny, come out, this is Penelope. I know what you look like, just come out and show yourself. Percy's been kidnapped. I need your help." 

Mother Swainbrooke gasped. 

From the darkest corner of the room, a rugged gray shadow unfolded itself and padded into view. Penelope forced herself to stay still. He's safe, she told herself, not sure if she believed it. He's safe. 

The wolf was leaner than she expected, smaller and rangier. The coarse gray fur held an hint of brown. He moved forward awkwardly, head down and tail between his legs. His emotional state was unmistakable. 

"Johnny, this is no time for self-pity," said Penelope forcefully. The wolf raised his head in surprise. "Percy has been kidnapped. You must help me to find him." She moved aside from the door and pointed toward Percy's room. "Get in there and get a scent." 

And to her great relief, the wolf did just that. 

He emerged carrying a dirty sock in his teeth, which he dropped at Penelope's feet. Mother Swainbrooke bent to pick it up, ostensibly to throw it in the laundry, but Penelope got there first and stuffed it into a pocket. "You have his scent?" she said crisply. 

The wolf nodded. 

"Then let's go." 

They tore out of the house and down the street, leaving Mother Swainbrooke frightened and confused at the top of the stairs. 

***

While Johnny was testing out a newly-awakened sense of smell, Percy was relying solely on his hearing. 

The blindfold made identifying his location impossible, and escape quite futile. He knew that he was sitting in a wooden chair (very uncomfortable one at that) with his arms and legs tied down; he knew there were at least two people in the room and that they were moving about restlessly, but not threateningly. Occasionally one would poke him or sneer a threat, but all their jibes seemed idle and impersonal. Clearly the kidnappers had done the job for someone else, and they were awaiting his or her arrival. But who ...? 

That, he decided, shifting his position to avoid a particularly impudent splinter, was not important. The important questions centered around what he was going to tell them. And if denial didn't work, his only option was to fight his way out. They had taken his wand. It would be messy. 

Hoping he wouldn't have to kill anyone with his bare hands, and wondering if he could manage it if necessary, Percy Weasley sat, blind and bound, and waited. 

***

Johnny bounded down yet another alley and padded to a halt in front of a run-down storehouse. Sniffing around at the crumbling foundation, he sat on his haunches and let out a long howl. 

Penelope came panting up to him, clutching her side. "You don't -- have to be -- so loud," she said, between catching her breath. "Taking us all over -- bloody -- London ..." 

Johnny gazed up at her and pointedly licked his chops. 

"Well ..." said Penelope, looking the building over, "this is it ...?" Johnny nodded his mangy head. "I suppose it _looks_ seedy enough." She peeked in a few of the windows. "It's dark ..." 

Johnny, pawing at the sidewalk, whined low in his throat. He crouched before a window that was so low it was on level with the ground. Penelope went to his side and hunkered down. At the bottom of the window, just at the corner, a flicker of light could be seen. 

"Stand guard," she told him. Then she unhinged the window and slipped inside. 

She dropped silently onto a cold concrete floor. Cardboard boxes and wooden crates, some with heavy red logos on the side, piled up around her nine or ten feet high. She crept around behind them until she could see through a crack, and had to stifle a gasp -- it was Percy all right, roped up and guarded by at least two men. Well, she thought, two against two isn't bad. She gripped her wand ... 

A door opened. Penelope pulled back into the shadows and watched. 

***

Commotion. 

A door opening. 

Hard, precise footsteps. 

The blindfold was whisked from Percy's face. 

At first he didn't actually see anything. Then, as he realized that he had his sight back, he began to take in the things around him. Crates and barrels, stacked to the ceiling; a thick, looming man in the background; another, smaller and timid, near him; and finally a lone figure standing mere feet away. His bearing alone was unmistakable. 

Lucius Malfoy. 

Percy calculated. Lucius Malfoy was friends with Cornelius Fudge. He knew that Percy had abandoned his family. He had seen his loyalty to the Ministry in action. There was hope. 

"Mr. Malfoy!" he babbled. "Thank goodness, you see what they've done to me --? Minister Fudge is going to be _furious_ --" 

"Oh _do_ stop it," said Lucius Malfoy. "You think we'll fall for all that? Please. We all know why you're here." 

Percy looked from Malfoy to the other and his pale face blanched further. "_I_ certainly don't," he said, pompous tone deserting him toward the end. "I demand to be released." 

The snake-headed cane swung out and caught Percy in the jaw; the chair in which he was bound nearly tipped under the force of it. He tasted blood. 

"I have _dreamed_ of this," said Malfoy softly. "It is usually your father featured in my dreams," he added thoughtfully, "but believe me, I'll settle for you ..." 

Percy tried again. "Do you realize, sir, that I report directly to the Minister of Magic himself? I will be missed, and let me assure you, as soon as that happens, every available Auror will be --" 

The cane lashed out again, the silver snake head crashing just below Percy's right eye. 

"You stupid boy," said Mr. Malfoy, savoring every word, "if an entire Ministry full of Aurors can't catch any one of a dozen escaped prisoners --" the man beside him sniggered unpleasantly "-- how on earth do you expect them to find just one Junior Assistant? Especially a weak ... pathetic ... know-it-all ... like yourself?" His words were punctuated with increasingly vicious blows. 

"The Minister --" Percy began weakly, and winced when Malfoy raised his cane again. The silver-haired man threw back his head and laughed. 

"Of course. My friend Cornelius. He'll be troubled at your disappearance, no doubt ... but to suspect genial, generous Lucius Malfoy? Ridiculous." He put his hands on the arms of Percy's chair and leaned down until his face was mere inches away. "Let's get to business, shall we? You are the Scarlet Raven." 

"If you're so certain," said Percy breathlessly, taking a terrible chance, "then why aren't I dead yet?" 

Malfoy smiled. "Good point." He stood up and swung his wand toward Percy's head. "_Avada_ --" 

The second part never came. Percy opened his eyes to see Malfoy gazing down at him with interest, wand still extended. 

"On second thought," said Malfoy slowly, "I am curious. How _have_ you managed such a remarkable record of arrests? Surely it wasn't accomplished by wand alone." 

He folded his arms across his chest and began to pace in front of the chair, coolly keeping Percy's gaze. 

"You must have equipment," he said slowly. "Amulets? An invisibility cloak?" He seemed to be reading Percy's thoughts. "Something else?" He smiled. "There is something, isn't there? You know, a Mr. Borgin recently mentioned to me that he finally sold one of his more precious artifacts." He interpreted Percy's silence with a rising delight. "You _do_ have the Hand of Glory. Splendid. When we search your flat I'll make a special effort to find it. A gift for my son ... he's had his eye on it, you know ..." 

Percy found his voice. "I'm curious myself," he managed. "Just what makes you think I have anything to do with the Scarlet Raven?" 

"My dear boy. You were seen." 

Percy's heart sank. 

"A certain someone recognized you during your escapades at the Clearwater house," said Malfoy coolly. He gestured to the shorter man behind him. 

The short, balding man smiled grimly. 

"Or don't you remember Wormtail?" Malfoy continued, mockery in every word of his drawling voice. "I suppose you _did_ know him in a different form. And a different name. Now what was it again ...? Oh, yes. Of course. _Scabbers."_

For a moment Percy's mind seemed to stop. Then, all at once, it lurched back into motion, swirling to assimilate this knowledge. What had Minister Fudge told him ... Sirius Black's escape ... Potter's silly story ... Peter Pettigrew ... a rat ... _Ron's rat_ ... 

"You see," said Malfoy satisfactorily, "he knew you immediately. Even behind that silly mask ..." He leaned toward Percy again. "You won't tell me anything more?" Percy was silent. "I thought as much. I would _love_ to stay and torture it out of you -- _believe_ me -- but I'm afraid I'm quite busy these days, and I simply don't want to put up with you any longer." He brought up his wand until the tip rested in the hollow of Percy's throat. "This, I'm afraid, will be the end of the Scarlet Raven." 

"Are you quite sure?" 

The voice was strong and unexpected. Mr. Malfoy straightened abruptly. "Who said that?" 

"Why, the fellow above you." 

Everyone looked up. 

Standing among the rafters, crimson cape flapping behind him, was the Scarlet Raven. 


	17. The Scarlet Raven

**Chapter Seventeen: The Scarlet Raven**

Percy stared into the ceiling and the scarlet apparition which stood there unperturbed. There were several moments of sheer unbroken silence. Then Mr. Malfoy spoke. His voice was as quiet and deadly as the bite of a snake. 

"Wormtail. You damned fool." 

The small man spoke out for the first time, angry but not assertive. "I know what I saw!" 

The Scarlet Raven laughed heartily from far above them. "I thought you might fall for that one. Gentlemen," he said grandly, bowing low, "it's been a pleasure. I do hope to see you again soon." 

Without another glance, he strode across the rafters and walked out of a ground-level window. 

Wormtail's mouth hung open. "But I --" 

Malfoy turned on him. "I will deal with you later," he growled. "Finish this one. Travers!" he barked. The big man grunted in reply and the two of them went rushing from the room in pursuit of the Scarlet Raven. 

Wormtail and Percy were left staring at each other uncertainly. 

"You don't want to kill me," said Percy, not sounding at all sure of the fact. 

Wormtail raised his wand to point at Percy's forehead. "You gave me to Ron when you got the owl," he said. 

His words were so unexpected that Percy was rendered speechless. "I--" 

"I thought you were going to take care of me," Wormtail growled. The wand, clutched in a silvery hand, didn't move an inch. "You abandoned me. You knew Ron wasn't very responsible." 

Unbelievable, Percy thought. My family hates me, my girlfriend leaves me and now I'm being told off by my pet rat. Not to mention that one of my coworkers kidnapped me and killed my owl. "I -- uh -- didn't think you would mind." 

"I did." His voice was ugly and sullen. "You could have kept us both." 

"I was a school prefect!" Percy scolded. "The school rules limiting the number of pets are extremely explicit. An owl OR a cat OR a toad. You're just lucky I didn't give you to the twins!" 

"I thought you liked me. I was a good rat. I learnt all of your stupid tricks --" 

"I _knew_ you could read!" Percy burst out. "I must have told Bill a hundred times! Wait 'til I ." 

He trailed off. Wormtail had his wand at Percy's forehead again. 

"You abandoned me. The master I serve now won't abandon me - he gave me this -" He flexed his silver hand. "And the reward will be even greater when I kill you. Avada -" 

He stopped. 

His eyes rolled to the back of his head. 

He collapsed into a heap on the floor. 

Penelope Clearwater lowered her wand and stepped over the fallen man. "Johnny is guarding us," she said quickly. "We need to get you out." 

Percy stared. "What are you doing here?" 

Penelope hurried around behind him and untied his hands with a flick of her wand. "What are _you_ doing here?" she countered. "Why on earth would they think that you were the Scarlet Raven?" 

"Because I _am_ the Scarlet Raven," Percy snapped, untying the ropes around his ankles. 

"Then who --" Penelope looked involuntarily at the window through which the Scarlet Raven had made his escape. 

Percy sprang to his feet. "Perkins, of course." He dusted himself off, looked around, and then turned back to Penelope. "Go home. I have to follow Perkins." 

Penelope put her hands on her hips. "I can't leave now!" 

"You can and you will," said Percy shortly. He started poking around the crowds of boxes along the walls. Maybe there was a weapon somewhere. 

Penelope's face reddened. "You know, that is _exactly_ like you!" 

"Penny, this is _not the time,_" said Percy through his teeth, rooting through the barrels on one side of the room. He tore the lid off of one and unearthed a dozen long, sheathed swords. Drawing one, he made a few experimental passes and then shoved it back into the scabbard. He'd rather by far have his wand, but something sharp would do in a pinch. He buckled it around his waist. He turned around -- and there was Penelope, inches from his face, glaring him down. 

"It's _never_ the time, is it?" Penelope demanded. "Because Percy always has to run off and do something important. Taking notes for the Minister -- a press conference -- saving a batch of Muggles --" 

"There is nothing wrong with press conferences!" said Percy hotly. 

"No, there's not!" said Penelope, not moving an inch. "But no matter what you do, Percy -- good, bad, no matter what -- the problem is that you never stop and think about how it's going to affect other people!" 

Percy stopped dead and stared at her. 

"Didn't you see how hard it would be on your family when you left? You say that you miss them -- what about the way they miss _you?_ Didn't you realize, when you wrote that letter, that Ron didn't want to hear any more terrible things about his best friend? Do you have _any idea_ what it did to your mother when you sent back the Christmas jumper?" 

He was astonished to see tears pouring down Penelope's cheeks. He reached out to wipe them; Penelope batted away his hand and hid her face. Her breath was coming in sobs. 

"And didn't you realize -- what it was like -- for me -- to watch you -- turn your back on your whole family -- and wonder -- whether I'd be next?" 

"Penny ..." Percy raised his hands toward her awkwardly, then dropped them again. "Penny, I could never turn my back on you." For just a moment his voice was soft and longing. Then, in an instant, it snapped back to crisp rigidity. "Any more than I could turn my back on Perkins. Right now he needs me, I fear, quite badly. You will go back to my flat --" 

"I will do no such thing," said Penelope viciously. "And you can't Banish me or Apparate away because you haven't got a wand." She wiped her wet cheeks angrily. 

"No," said Percy, his eyes narrowing, "but _you_ do." 

He lunged at her. 

The tussle was interrupted by a cranky voice. 

"You might've waited for a better time to get frisky." 

Percy looked up from where he straddled Penelope's waist. "Perkins!" Penelope snatched back her wand. "You managed to shake them?" 

Perkins glanced over his shoulder. "Not exactly." There was the sound of frantic footsteps outside the door. 

Percy gaped at him. He and Penelope scrambled to their feet. "You brought them back?!?" 

"What was I supposed to do? Lead 'em to my house?" 

"You were supposed to lose them!" 

The door banged open. 

Malfoy and Travers burst in, wands forward, sneering breathlessly. Mr. Malfoy's hair was mussed and his pale face was flush in the cheeks. None of them looked surprised to see so many people in the warehouse; without missing a step, Malfoy roared, "You take Weasley and the girl -- the Raven is _mine!_" 

"Come get me," snarled Perkins, raising his wand. 

Percy saw Travers advance on them with a smirk. He shoved in front of Penelope. "Stay behind me!" he ordered, and reached for his sword. 

"You idiot, I'm the one with the wand!" Penelope cried. She dove out from behind him. _"Tarantallegra!"_

Travers's feet went off in a wild uncontrollable jig. He managed to stagger a few paces forward before he lost his footing completely. He landed on his side amid a stack of crates, which collapsed and tumbled around him. _"Crucio!"_ he gasped. 

Percy flung himself into Penelope and propelled them both several feet to the side. The spell zinged past, bounced off of some barrels, and scattered. Percy bounded to his feet and reached out a hand to Penelope, who sat disoriented in the middle of some sacks of flour. "Are you -- _aaaaargh!_" 

A bolt of violet wandlight struck him in the side and whirled him around like a top. He spun into a pile of cardboard boxes and crumpled. 

Penelope scrambled up. Malfoy and Perkins seemed to have a heated duel going on right then, but she didn't bother to look at them -- her wand was focused on Travers, still lying half-covered with crates. _"Locomotor mortis!"_

_"Protego!"_ Travers snarled, just in time to block her curse. _"Relashio!"_

A jet of shimmering embers landed on her arm, burning holes in her sweater. Before she had even swatted them all out, Travers was up again. _"Expelliarmus!"_

The wand wrenched itself from Penelope's hand. It clattered to the ground and rolled out of sight. She backed away. Travers was grinning now, _leering_ in fact, relishing victory. Penelope dodged behind some crates, her heart beating fast. She was no match for him without a wand ... and she had nowhere to go ... 

There was a rustling nearby: Percy struggling to stand up. His spectacles were cockeyed on his face, and he was bleeding from his right temple. He still looked a little muddled. Behind him, Wormtail was also beginning to stir. Penelope peeked around the corner to see Travers shift his attention to the red-haired boy. "Percy!" she cried. "Get out of the way --!" 

A long howl echoed through the room. 

A thick dark form burst through an upper window and skidded deftly down the piles of boxes. It leapt over Malfoy and Perkins -- who were both struggling through a pair of force fields -- and landed in front of Travers with its ears down and teeth bared. Travers started forward with his massive hands outstretched, but Wormtail cried out: 

"Keep back -- that's a werewolf!" 

Immediately Travers backed away. Johnny growled. 

Percy staggered against the pile of crates. He shoved his glasses into place and stared. "Johnny!" 

Penelope tore her eyes from the werewolf and cast about on the ground for her wand. It had to be here, it couldn't've gone far ... she spotted the tip of it sticking out from below a bushel basket, in the rear corner of the room. She got down on the floor. _Accio,_ she thought, stretching her arm as far as it could go. _Come to me ..._

_"Stupefy!"_

Percy went rigid and collapsed again. 

Wormtail hovered over him, his face a horrible mix of fear and anger. His eyes flickered to Penelope. 

She wasted no more time. Diving to the corner, she heaved aside the bushel basket and snatched up her wand. She spun around. _"Protego!"_

It was not a moment too soon. Wormtail's spell ricocheted and went into the ceiling, where it exploded against the rafters. 

_"Expelliarmus!"_ she roared. Wormtail went flying backward and hit the wall. His wand disappeared into the piles of crates. _"Ennervate!"_ Percy's eyes flew open. He sprang to his feet. Penelope whirled toward Travers. _"Petrificus totalus!"_

Travers' face went slack; his arms and legs snapped to his sides and he clattered to the ground, utterly motionless. Johnny leapt onto his chest and howled in victory. 

Percy stared at Penelope. "You're _good._" 

She allowed herself a mischievous smile. "I know." 

There were roars from the other side of the room. Both of them turned. 

Malfoy and Perkins had both lost their wands and were grappling shoulder to shoulder -- Perkins' wrinkled face was white and thin-lipped, Malfoy's a frenzy of hate. Getting his shoulder low, Malfoy flung out an arm and caught Perkins across the chest. The old man staggered back. 

Lifting his arms with great effort, Perkins raised his palms toward Malfoy. A bubble of blue light bloomed in each hand. He shoved both arms toward his enemy. 

A wave of blue light streamed out and caught Malfoy in the chest. The man was lifted off the ground and thrown across the room. He collapsed into a pile of barrels. His hands flailed for support ... and found the swords scattered from their barrel. 

He snatched one up and rose to his feet, glaring at Perkins. "You old fool," he sneered, sliding off the scabbard and tossing it aside as he stalked forward, "you ignoramus --" 

Perkins, unarmed and injured, glared back unflinchingly. 

Instantly, Percy dashed across the flung himself between the two. He took a stance in front of Perkins and raised his sword in both hands. 

Malfoy let out a short laugh. "Stupid boy --" He made a lazy swipe with his sword. Percy deflected it easily. 

Malfoy frowned and tried another pass. It was cast to the side. Penelope ran to Perkins and drew him away from the battle. Malfoy lunged. Percy leapt to one side and the blade slid harmlessly beneath his arm. He caught Malfoy's sword near the hilt and sent the tall man stumbling backwards. Sneering, a hint of madness in his eyes, Malfoy brought up his sword and attacked. 

The Guardian sword had never been so fierce or so wildly intent. Percy stumbled backward through the rubble of the warehouse, aware that he was literally fighting for his life. Malfoy's blade was a hummingbird, the tongue of a serpent -- the eaves rung with clanging steel and the hum of resonating metal. Roaring in frustration, Malfoy darted forward and caught Percy in the shoulder with the flat of his blade. Percy ducked before it could make its way to his neck and thrust out to scratch Malfoy's side. Panting, the other man retreated for just a moment before charging forward again. 

A strange thing was happening in Percy's mind. These attacks, these moves were so familiar -- he had seen it all before, felt its fury amid the walls of Perkins' study. Malfoy was no different than the disembodied sword. And he realized, with dawning amazement, that he wasn't getting wounded. He'd hardly been touched ... 

_... I can do this._

Percy parried twice in a row and went on the offensive. 

Malfoy suddenly found himself at the other end of the attack. Where had this pauper learned to fight? He fended off an upper swing only to be met by a sharp jab in the side. Blood leaked onto his pristine shirt. Suddenly it became clear that the situation may not end as he had expected. He took an involuntary step back. 

That was all Percy needed. He leapt forward into the open space, caught the tip of his sword in Malfoy's hilt, and flung the sword across the room. At the same instant, he kicked out a foot and wrapped it around Malfoy's ankle. The blonde man thudded onto his back. Within the flicker of his eye he had his blade at Malfoy's throat. 

"Checkmate," he said quietly. 

Malfoy grew still. His cunning eyes narrowed. 

Johnny came down off of Travers and padded in front of Wormtail, who had started to come back to consciousness. Perkins found his wand under some old linens and took up a post near the door. Penelope kept her eyes firmly on Travers, Full-Body-Bound and helpless on the floor. 

When Percy spoke again the room was almost silent. "Is everyone all right?" 

Penelope nodded and Perkins grunted assent, although he was holding his side. Johnny barked happily. 

"Perkins, was there anyone else after you?" 

The old man shook his head. 

"Perkins?" Malfoy's eyes lit up and immediately, Percy would have given anything to take back his words. "Not that pathetic old fool who works with Weasley in the Muggle Artifacts department?" He let out a cold, cruel laugh, ignoring that his Adam's apple brushed the tip of Percy's sword. "The Scarlet Raven, a silly old ex-Auror with an office the size of a broom closet?" 

"Give me that sword," growled Perkins. 

"Keep your eyes on the others," Percy ordered. The point of the sword never flickered. "This man speaks lies." 

"Lies, are they?" Malfoy hissed. "Let me speak to you some truths, then. There are those who know where I've been. If I come up missing it'll be in the papers within days -- The Scarlet Raven and Sidekick Go Rogue, Kill Philanthropist. Then they'll be on your trail day and night. Your days of saving Muggles will be over. The Quibbler will no longer salute you. And when you're found, you can be assured of one last kindness -- the Dementor's Kiss." 

"False assumption," said Percy, his voice wavering just a bit. "What if we don't kill you?" 

"Ah." Malfoy smiled. "Mercy. Azkaban, I presume ... but then your cover is destroyed, your effectiveness gone. We will be the last arrests you are ever able to make. Deny all you want, but consider ... the word of Lucius Malfoy against the word of a boy --" He glanced at Johnny. "Or a half-breed --" Johnny growled and Wormtail cowered back. "Or a fossil --" Perkins gritted his teeth. "Or a Mudblood." 

_"Give me that sword,"_ Penelope snarled. 

"Don't listen to that claptrap," Perkins said. He seemed to be speaking with difficulty; Percy wondered how badly he was really hurt. "We'll work out what to do next once he's dead." 

Dead. The word struck Percy with no warning, a verbal bullet. He didn't want to kill. Sword or wand, it came down to the same thing -- murder, whether the victim deserved it or not. But there seemed no other way. Unless --? 

"Hesitating?" Malfoy crooned. "He who hesitates is lost ..." 

Without taking his eyes from Malfoy, Percy held out a hand to Perkins. "Give me your wand." 

Malfoy's face fell. "What are you doing?" 

"Finishing this." Percy leveled the wand at Malfoy's head. "I'll see you at the office." 

"Wait --!" 

_"Obliviate!"_

***

When Lucius Malfoy opened his eyes he saw the crackling logs in his own fireplace. 

He shifted and sat upright in the armchair, and was surprised to find himself wincing in pain. Must have fallen asleep in a strange position. Unusual. 

Narcissa breezed in, striking in a silken dressing gown. "Oh, you're back," she said lazily, coming around to drop a kiss on his cheek. "Did you get him?" 

"Get who?" said Lucius irritably, rubbing his cheek. 

"The Scarlet Raven," said Narcissa, She glided across the room to pluck a book from a shelf that spanned a wall from floor to ceiling. "You were going to kill Percy Weasley because he's the Scarlet Raven. Did you manage it?" 

Lucius, halfway out of his seat, let out a short bark of a laugh. "Percy Weasley?" He joined his wife at the bookshelf. "That nearsighted, groveling mendicant? Where on earth would I get such a ridiculous idea?" 

"Yes, well I thought it was a bit silly myself," said Narcissa. She slid a cool hand around his neck. "I'm glad you're back. I had planned to spend the night reading. You know how tiresome that is." 

Lucius's mouth twisted into a grin despite himself. "Let's see if we can come up with something more engaging." 

"Oh, I'm sure we can." 

***

Perkins' apartment glowed with the lights on low; the rain had tapered off to a gentle patter on the windows. The old man, nursing a cup of tea, paused every once in a while to readjust the heating pad on his shoulder, and to move the ice pack on his side. 

Across from him, Percy slouched on the sofa holding a bag of ice to his jaw. His other arm was around Penelope, who rested her head on his chest. Johnny lay on the floor between them, toying with a soup bone that Perkins had found in his icebox. 

"So after the World Cup, Perkins contacted you about this Raven thing," said Penelope, clutching a mug of tea. 

Perkins nodded. "Needed someone to take over -- I haven't done the job for ten years. Arthur told me about how his boys tackled that gang of Death Eaters. The other two lived overseas," he gestured with his teacup, "so I had to go with _this_ one." 

"After the Triwizard Tournament," Percy said, picking up the story, "everything indicated that Voldemort was back -- not only Potter's story, but rumors in the street, at the Ministry." He removed the ice, prodded the side of his mouth carefully, winced, and put it back. "My whole family was convinced -- and you know Mum, she doesn't make up her mind lightly." 

Penelope nodded, snuggling into his side. 

"So I hinted to Fudge that I'd be able to spy on my family. Of course I got promoted right away -- then I broke ties with them so I wouldn't be asked to, and so I wouldn't be suspected of having a connection with Dumbledore." 

"You might have told them," said Penelope, but her voice was soft, unaccusing. "They would have understood." 

"That's what _I_ told him," Perkins snorted. 

"All this time, and I never guessed," Penelope sighed, taking a sip of tea. "I wish you'd told me." 

"I wish I could have," said Percy. "I didn't want to put you in danger. Clearly it didn't work." He looked down at her fondly. 

Penelope met his eyes. Slowly she sat up. 

"Percy," she began, setting down her tea, "I want you to understand something." 

The grin faded from Percy's face. 

She reached out and took his hand, firmly holding his gaze. "If you're in danger, I want to be there. I want to be able to help you when you need it -- I want you to help me when _I_ need it. I want to be with you, Percy. All the time. In everything." 

Percy stared at her. "That --" He was conscious of his voice breaking. "That's what I want." 

Johnny and Perkins exchanged a glance. Perkins cleared his throat. 

"Looks to me like we're not on our own anymore, sprout," he said loudly. 

Johnny nodded vigorously. 

Percy and Penelope didn't look at them. "You never were," said Penelope softly. 

"I wish I'd known that before," Percy whispered. 

"Just do one thing for me, Percy." 

"Anything." 

Penelope smiled. "Write to your mother." 

Percy took a deep breath. Then he smiled back. 

"You know, I think I will." 

**Epilogue**

Percy rooted around in the back of his closet, dug through the clothes hamper, checked under the bureau and plunked onto his bed in disgust. 

"Confound it all!" 

Mother Swainbrooke bustled in with a basket of fresh linens. "What's the matter then, Mr. Weasley?" 

"Just ... misplaced something," said Percy vaguely, scratching his chin. "I thought for sure ..." 

"Would it be this?" smiled Mother Swainbrooke. She whisked the Scarlet Raven cloak from the laundry. 

Percy gaped. 

"T'was so torn and dirty, I knew you'd be needin' it fresh for tonight," said the landlady fondly. "I patched it up for ye." She laid it on the bed with the rest of his clean laundry. "Now ye'll be in fine shape to capture some Muggle-baiters, right you will!" 

"Right I will," said Percy weakly. 

The landlady bustled out. 

Percy looked across the room at his new owl Mercury. "Was I honestly that obvious?" 

Mercury hooted and hid her head beneath her wing. 

**Finis**

~~~~~~~~~~  
Thanks for reading. If you've stuck it out the whole way, please leave a review so that I know you were here -- and so I and the other, oh, two or three readers can check out your profile. :-) 


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